


Go Your Own Way

by Starshot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Armchair travel, Background Natasha Romanov/Clint Barton - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Brief Brock Rumlow/Bucky, Brock's an asshole obviously, Bucky is a sassy gay disaster, Bucky needs thirst aid, Christmas, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Riley/Sam Wilson, Mutual Pining, NZ cultural references, New Yorker!Bucky, New Zealand, New Zealander!Steve, Nomad Steve's beard, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Road Trips, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Summer Vacation, Swearing, The Lord of the Rings References, The fluffiest fluff, don’t argue you know it deserves its own mention, how many Taika Waititi movie references can I fit into one fic?, inspired by Falling Inn Love, intercontinental romance, past family deaths referenced, racebent Riley, so covid can fuck right off, the year 2018, two nerds bond over the LOTR movies, very eventual smut, we're about to find out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 90,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28142265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starshot/pseuds/Starshot
Summary: Bucky Barnes leads a charmed life in New York; a well-off family, high-flying job, and caring boyfriend. At least—that’s how it looks from the outside. Until the day he finds himself out of work and newly single, set upon by parents determined to micromanage their prodigal son and his emotional support ice cream up off the couch and back into society where he belongs.Cue a drunken movie marathon with some old college buddies, a spur-of-the-moment vacation to New Zealand, and a lesson in taking the road less travelled—courtesy of a hot local named Steve who’s on a mission all of his own.From Cape Reinga to Invercargill—lollies will be eaten, cultural norms will be misinterpreted, and two idiots will fall in love somewhere along the way.[Updating every Friday until complete]
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 101
Kudos: 103





	1. A Snowstorm in the Big Apple

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about because I watched that Netflix movie “Falling Inn Love” and wanted to write a Stucky version. I couldn’t settle on a single location though, not when there are so many beautiful places to choose from. The solution clearly—an epic road trip! 
> 
> The resulting story might actually be the most gloriously self-indulgent fic I’ve ever written. I had an absolute blast creating an itinerary for these two and their intercontinental love story, drawing on places and stories that are very close to my heart. I can only hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> On the Māori Language: I’ve done my best to use it accurately, with reference to the [NZ Māori Dictionary](https://maoridictionary.co.nz/). Crudely, vowels share a similar pronunciation to Japanese, and a macron (e.g. ō) indicates a longer sounding vowel. “Wh” is pronounced similarly to the English “F” sound. If you’re interested, [this](https://nzhistory.govt.nz/culture/maori-language-week/365-maori-words/) website has a lot of recorded words and place names to give you an idea of pronunciation. But I’m by no means an expert, just another local trying to learn more later in life. 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://antipodeanpineapplelump.tumblr.com/)—mostly pterodactyl screeching about how difficult writing is, but also here to answer any New Zealand related questions you might have from reading this this fic. I'm planning to update once a week, most likely late Friday NZ time, work permitting. 
> 
> Happy reading! ❤

* * *

**“It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”**

**JRR Tolkien – The Fellowship of the Ring**

### New York City, 15th November 2018

Bucky’s alarm clock goes off with a noise like a klaxon, only a klaxon that’s about five times louder and more obnoxious than any regular klaxon has a right to be. As though the devil has called him personally on a direct line from Hell to tell him it’s only Thursday, and he’s still got two whole days of work, and one potentially career defining—or breaking—marketing pitch to go before he can clock off for the weekend.

The devil being, in this case, Alexander Pierce, probably. 

Bucky groans, momentarily tossing up whether to pull the covers back over his head and pretend he’s sick again. It might work. Except that he’s got dinner with Brock tonight, and Brock will out him for sure, the brown-nosing bastard. Never mind where his priorities _should_ lie.

It’s just one of the many things they disagree on. But as Bucky’s mom so eloquently puts it, Brock’s the one with the job that’s going places, and Bucky is unreasonable for expecting his on-again off-again boyfriend to cover for him just because he can’t face dealing with his tyrant of a boss anymore in the week before Thanksgiving break.

He runs a hand over his face, groaning again before finally summoning the energy to turn the alarm off and drag himself out of bed. It should be illegal to have to get up before sunrise. Or to work after sunset. Sure, maybe that reduces the usable working day during the middle of a New York winter to like, nine hours, at best, but Bucky thinks that’s pretty reasonable, all things considered.

A quick search of his wardrobe produces a clean shirt—and lets him slam the door loudly a couple of times to spite the noisy couple next door who kept him awake again last night. Then it’s onto the bathroom. Shave, cleanse, moisturise, and work wax through his soft curls to give them volume and some semblance of control.

Never mind everything else that’s going on in Bucky’s life, it makes him happy to know he at least _looks_ like he’s got it together. About as together as a neatly positioned set of deck chairs on the Titanic maybe, but that’s beside the point.

After all, when you’re just a few months shy of thirty, having last week found your first grey hair, compromises have to be made.

Within a few minutes he’s standing by the front door of his apartment, debating the ever-present dilemma posed by New York’s changeable seasonal weather. Boots or shoes? He’s almost certain he remembers seeing something about snow in the forecast for today, but everyone knows that never actually happens in November.

Bucky checks his phone and rolls his eyes. One inch. Shoes it is.

Buttoning a fashionable peacoat over his suit and looping a cashmere scarf around his neck, he grabs his gym bag and heads out the door. Outside it’s frigid but clear. Cold enough to coat the city’s parks and gardens in a thin layer of glittering frost.

 _Yeah right,_ he thinks again—glancing up at the few stars he can see through the city’s bright glow— _snow_.

A short subway ride takes him to the gym a block away from work. It’s not that Bucky particularly likes working out, although it does help him wake up in the mornings. More that it’s force of habit, born from a paranoid belief that Brock will somehow know if he doesn’t. Like he's got a direct link to the building’s security cameras and an inclination to monitor Bucky’s every move. Which to be honest, Bucky wouldn’t put past him. 

But at least it’s mind-numbing to run on the treadmill for the next hour, finishing just as the sun rises. A quick shower, then he’s ready to go. The streets are already busy by then, the usual bustle of a city of eight million people going about another business day. Bucky joins them. It’s a familiar game with well-known rules. Head down, earphones in, avoid eye contact at all costs. Ignore the panhandlers and the guy playing bugle in his car instead of just using the horn like every other semi-sane driver, and walk out in front of them all anyway, because that’s your God-given right as a pedestrian in New York.

He ducks into a Starbucks, uplifting his pre-ordered pumpkin spice latte and continuing along the sidewalk downtown, sticking to the subway grates where possible to make the most of the precious warmth rising from them.

As he walks he checks his messages. There’s one from Becca wishing him luck with his presentation today, and warning him their mom is out for his blood for not committing to her Thanksgiving plans yet. There’s one from his mom herself alluding to as much, and also reminding him to pick up the new suit she decided he had to have tailored for the occasion. As if Bucky needed _more_ to do this week.

He responds to both, thanking Becca and assuring his mom he won’t forget. Then he pulls up the group chat he shares with Nat and Clint. There’s a near avalanche of new messages, which obviously means some serious shit has gone down overnight.

> Clint: Bucky help! We’re having an argument and we need you to settle it.
> 
> Nat: Don’t listen to him, there’s no argument. I’ve already won.
> 
> Clint: There is, and it’s that Nat wants to go to Vietnam next, but I think Australia would be better.
> 
> Nat: Australia has poisonous spiders.
> 
> Clint: You like spiders.
> 
> Nat: You don’t.
> 
> Clint: But… consider this: Koalas. Cute huggable kangaroos. Wombats? Think of the photo opportunities!

Bucky snorts. It’s been years since college, but some things never change. Except perhaps, the way his best friends can take a passion for travel and turn it into an ever-expanding social media presence that now pays for their jet-setting lifestyle. If Clint and Nat aren’t already on a trip, they’re almost certainly planning their next one. It’s the kind of freedom Bucky can only dream of. The sort that makes his boring, predictable office job seem all that much more disappointing in comparison. Not exactly what he had in mind after five years of expensive education at Columbia. But at least it pays the bills he supposes.

> Bucky: I don’t think you’re supposed to hug kangaroos Clint. They can get quite aggressive. Haven’t you seen that viral video?
> 
> Nat: TOLD YOU! Oh and good luck for today Bucky.
> 
> Clint: Video? What video? And good luck! Haven’t you ditched those assholes yet? When you’re ready to, let us know. We’ll hire you. And we know a bunch of other people who would too.

Bucky smiles. Times might change, but Clint and Nat always have his back.

> Bucky: The one where the kangaroo has the man’s dog in a headlock? And thanks, but I’ve got this. I think. Talk later.

Walking off the street and into an ostentatious marble-clad atrium, Bucky takes the elevator up to the head offices of Hydra Marketing. At his desk he reviews his notes and the presentation he’ll be giving later on. It’s simple really—just a marketing pitch aimed at a younger demographic that, if successful, should turn around a struggling sustainable design company. Exactly the kind of project Bucky enjoys, and the same area of interest that led him into creating Clint and Nat’s highly successful social media brand. The same reason they keep trying to entice him out of the rat race and into freelancing, not that his family would ever let him live that kind of wild, non-traditional choice down.

But, if today works, it might just be his ticket into a better firm, with actual job prospects.

As the weather outside clouds over, Bucky agonises over every detail of the boardroom. He sets out a jug of water, a plate of doughnuts, pens, notepads, and checks over the sound and projection equipment. Then, checks it again just to calm his nerves. Finally, at midday, just as heavy low-hanging clouds roll over the city, soft around the edges in a way that suggests the meteorologists might have got the forecast very, very wrong, Bucky’s ready.

 _You’ve got this,_ he tells himself.

Half an hour later, when his clients still haven’t arrived, he begins to worry. It’s at that exact moment that Pierce’s smarmy-faced right-hand man Rollins saunters into the room, grinning like he’s just heard the punch line to a particularly nasty joke. It does absolutely nothing to lessen the usual effect Rollins has on Bucky, which is mostly that Bucky wants to punch him in his extremely aggravating face.

But he supposes walking in on your on-again off-again boyfriend making out with a guy in the filing room at the office Christmas party will have that effect on a person. According to Brock it only happened once, during one of his and Bucky’s breaks, although that does sound exactly like the type of shit Brock might say to avoid yet another argument between them.

In any case, Bucky thinks he exercises an admirable amount of self-control in not throwing any of the conveniently to hand stationery directly in Rollins’ stupid face.

“Pierce wants to see you in his office Barnes,” Rollins announces.

He follows it up with a snicker and Bucky’s stomach sinks. If Rollins is this happy, whatever Pierce wants can’t be good.

“Any idea what it’s about?” he asks, hoping it’s just the usual crap. Work not being up to Pierce’s impossible standards, or some imaginary deadline or another that Bucky’s missed. Probably because Pierce thinks he’s psychic and didn’t bother to tell him about it. If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d say the man had it in for him.

Rollins shrugs like he couldn’t care less. “Better ask him.”

Literally the last thing Bucky wants is to do as he’s instructed. But it never pays to keep Pierce waiting. Or to question his instructions.

Rising with a sigh, Bucky pauses next to Rollins. “All right. But call me if my clients arrive, okay?”

A flicker of amusement crosses Rollin’s face. “Sure,” he says, in a way that makes Bucky sure the only thing he absolutely isn’t going to do is exactly what Bucky just asked him to do. He really hopes whatever Pierce wants is quick.

Down the corridor he drags his feet like someone’s slipped lead into his shoes. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s wondered if Pierce’s office might be the site of an actual black hole, or maybe Shelob’s lair, because it’s somewhere his co-workers seem to get sucked into and never return. At least, not the same way they were before anyway. 

He knocks on the door.

“Come in,” Pierce calls.

When Bucky enters, Pierce is sitting primly behind an overly ornate mahogany desk, silhouetted by a murky view of uptown Manhattan. He cuts exactly the kind of uncompromising traditional authority figure that Bucky’s parents have always admired, and wished their son would too.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Barnes,” Pierce says, staring down his nose at Bucky in a way that couldn’t be good even if he was trying to make it look that way, which he clearly isn’t. “Didn’t you get the email I sent you?”

Bucky frowns. “What email? And can we talk about it later? I have clients…”

Clicking his tongue in frustration, Pierce shakes his head. “They’ve been reassigned.”

Outside the window, big fat flakes of snow are now drifting by, which is just fucking fantastic. About as fantastic as Pierce changing the plans on Bucky last-minute, after he’s already done all the work. Clearly, the world has it in for him today.

He feels his fists tighten. “But… I was here until nine last night completing the pitch! I have the whole presentation ready to go. You can’t just give it away like that…”

“I think you’ll find I can,” Pierce says icily, eyes narrowing. “Rumlow will be taking over your clients from now on. I presume you trust his skills? If you’d bothered to read your emails this morning, you’d know we’ve been forced to undertake some unfortunate… restructuring. As a result, a position for someone of your expertise no longer exists.”

Bucky stares at him, open-mouthed. “What?” he manages eventually, feeling like his delicate hold on any semblance of control is slipping through his fingers.

Pierce sighs as though he’s dealing with an imbecile. A vein on one of his temples clearly stands out. “You’re being made redundant Barnes. Go and clear your desk.”

Not even so much as an apology.

No, _‘Sorry we’re making you redundant the week before Thanksgiving, Bucky. The time of year when no one’s looking to hire, and you’re guaranteed not to get another job this side of February.’_

Which is just fucking great.

Bucky’s parents are going to be so proud. It’s going to be Rebecca this and Rebecca that, _again_ this Christmas. Our daughter the lawyer. Did we tell you how she graduated with honours? The golden child of the family.

As much as Bucky loves his sister, he doesn’t know if he can handle another year of that.

Pierce waits expectantly and Bucky finds his gaze drawn to the photo on his desk. His family presumably—wife, kids and dog, all posed to look just as stiff and unyielding as he is. Bucky wonders if Pierce is this much of an asshole at home. And whether all assholes are naturally inclined to hire other assholes, in which case, none of this is really Bucky’s fault.

“Do I get any say in the matter?” he asks, already guessing what the answer’s going to be.

Pierce shakes his head like he’s annoyed at how long this is taking. “The decision has already been made. Clear your desk and hand in your key-card at reception.”

Bucky purses his lips, processing this change in his circumstances. Emotion rises in his chest, bitter and raw. Despite his best efforts to tamp it down, a wry laugh makes it out anyway.

He supposes he _could_ use this Friday off. And every Friday after that…

“Something you find amusing about this Barnes?” Pierce asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Bucky waves a flippant hand at him, already moving to leave. He wonders if this is how it feels to be hysterical. “No, just…” He pauses, momentarily battling with his better judgement, before it loses out to his infamous temper, which has never exactly been insignificant. “Happy fucking holidays, _sir_.”

He spits the words at Pierce like he wishes they would skewer him, casting a well-deserved one-finger salute over his shoulder as he strides spitefully from the office.

It doesn’t take long before security catches up with him.

What happens next goes pretty much as you’d expect. 

Which is to say, it’s how James Buchanan Barnes—only son of George Barnes, renowned lawyer to some of the biggest names on Wall Street, and Winnifred Barnes, society housewife and long-time charity lunch host—finds himself escorted from the building, sans the contents of his desk, in the week before Thanksgiving.

Bucky tells himself he didn’t want the job anyway.

Not even the fancy embossed business cards with his name on them. Or the expensive coffee machine in the break room that grinds the beans to just the right fineness. Or the way his employment made his parents view him as less of a let-down. 

_Fuck_.

It’s snowing properly outside now, collecting in great slushy drifts at the edges of the sidewalk, sticking to the windward side of street signs, lamp posts, and awnings. Trucks from the city’s sanitation department grind past, making a valiant attempt to plough the roads and spread salt. They’re fighting a losing battle against traffic and weather though. Already the roads are gridlocked, the streets echoing with the horns of irate drivers who know they’re not getting home before dark. Or later, if they’re unfortunate enough to live in the wider tri-state area.

You get what you deserve for living in Jersey though, Bucky thinks.

He sighs, trying to follow the footprints of the people ahead of him, where the snow is already compressed and semi-melted. Already he can feel the cold and wet soaking through his shoes.

Proper snow. In New York. In _November_. That’s not meant to happen until late December, at least. Probably more like January, really.

He pulls the collar of his coat up around his neck, glaring at the tourists blocking the sidewalk as they stop to take selfies. Of course _they_ would think New York looks picturesque when it snows. But only because they have nowhere to be, and don’t understand the hell that is going to be Bucky’s commute in this weather. All because his mother is dissatisfied with presenting anything less than the perfect image to their friends and family for the holidays.

Well… has Bucky ever got a curveball for her this year.

His phone vibrates and he opens the message.

> Brock: Are we still on for tonight?

For a fleeting second, Bucky experiences a rush of irritation before realising there’s obviously no way Brock can know yet. 

> Bucky: I’m not sure. I don’t have a job anymore, so…
> 
> Brock: Ah.
> 
> Brock: Pierce told you then.

Whatever irritation Bucky felt before, triples.

> Bucky: You knew?
> 
> Brock: It may have been discussed at the monthly management meeting last week. But you know I can’t just go sharing that information with you sweetie. It’s confidential. We’ve talked about this before.

It takes every ounce of self-control Bucky has not to type back, _‘don’t fucking sweetie me’_. But the alternative doesn’t come out much better.

> Bucky: So what you’re saying is… you knew, but you didn’t bother to give me a heads up, because you’re too fucking worried about your own career? Gee, thanks. Glad to know you care.
> 
> Brock: Don’t make this all about you again.
> 
> Bucky: Uh, in case you didn’t notice, it is all about me. As far as I know, you still have a job.

Bucky can almost picture the way Brock’s jaw will be tightening right now. The grind of his teeth, and the slow breath he’ll be taking to get himself under control before he responds. It gives him a vicious sense of satisfaction. Not that he enjoys deliberately aggravating his boyfriend or anything. But—maybe he does a little bit. Because no matter what Bucky might admit, he’s never really gotten over that Christmas party. And he’s pretty sure Brock knows it too.

> Brock: Look, can you stop being a drama queen for long enough to talk about this? At dinner? I’ve got good news.

Bucky clenches his teeth, resisting the urge to throw his phone into the nearest snow drift, jump in after it, crush it to tiny pieces and emigrate to Timbuktu. If Brock ever gets his head far enough out of his ass to think of anyone but himself, it will be one of life’s miracles. The Catholic Church will probably come calling, asking who they should canonize for the privilege. So it’s not surprising Bucky has to put his phone in his pocket for a full minute and take several deep, calming breaths before he can face answering. 

> Bucky: Sure.

Brock doesn’t reply of course, because now he’s got what he wants. God forbid he might actually worry about his boyfriend of three years, who’s just lost his job.

It was never like this when they first started dating. Back then, Brock actually had a sense of humour, or at least cared enough to pretend he did. He was everything Bucky had been looking for in a guy—smart, attractive, and willing to shoulder the kind of responsibility Bucky preferred not to worry about. To make decisions for both of them.

Now, Bucky wonders what he ever saw in him. He’s a narcissistic controlling asshole with very few redeeming features. Their entire relationship could be a case study on settling. All because Brock’s from a ‘good’ family, Bucky’s parents are close to his, and sometimes it’s just easier not to rock the boat.

Bucky ducks down the stairs onto an already crowded subway platform, brushing snow from his hair and scanning the signs to find his worst fears have been realised.

Express services cancelled.

He groans. This day just keeps getting better and better. 

By seven it’s already been dark for two hours by the time Bucky finally manages to make it to the restaurant. It’s modern and upmarket, decked out in black and white, all-leather furniture, and classy art-deco fittings. The whole effect creates a less-than-subtle display of wealth that should be enough to satisfy even Brock’s ego.

The other patrons are a well-heeled crowd, mostly business types from the Financial District who look like they’re dining out after work. The waitstaff are attentive and helpful and don’t so much as blink when Bucky asks if they can hang his new suit for him because he hasn’t had the chance to drop it home yet. Not with the travel mayhem the snow is causing across the city.

“It’s no problem,” the young waitress says with a smile. “I’ll show you to your table.”

She pulls the chair out for Bucky, pours him and Brock some water, then rattles off the specials.

As soon as she’s gone, the noxious fake smile on Brock’s face fades. “You’re late,” he says, looking Bucky up and down. “And couldn’t you at least have tried to fix your hair?”

Bucky resists the overwhelming urge to kick him in the shins. Easy for him to look perfect. He hasn’t been hauling his ass uptown and back in the snow.

Running his fingers through the limp mess the weather’s made of his hair, Bucky feels more than a little bit self-conscious. He sips his water through tight lips, counting to ten before he responds. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but it’s snowing outside. I can’t feel my toes anymore, and I haven’t had the chance to go home yet since being fired.”

Brock rolls his eyes like that’s no excuse. “Don’t be dramatic. You weren’t fired.”

“Does it make a difference?” Bucky scowls. “Either way I don’t have a job anymore.”

Fingers tightening around his glass, Brock makes a face like he’s trying very hard to be patient. “Of course it’s different sweetie, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand the nuances of management.”

Bucky slams his own glass down, patience already wearing thin. “Why not?”

“Hm?” Brock raises an eyebrow like he’s surprised Bucky even said anything.

“I said, why wouldn’t you expect me to understand the nuances of management?”

At that moment the waitress returns to take their order. Bucky watches as Brock’s smarmy smile reasserts itself. “I’ll have the steak and kale chips, and my boyfriend here will have the paleo salad, thank you. Oh and hold the bread, we don’t need the carbs.”

Bucky fumes. “Brock,” he says through clenched teeth, “We’ve talked about this. I can order for myself… and I wanted the steak and fries.”

Brock shakes his head in disapproval. “I’m just looking out for you sweetie. I know you’ve had a bad day, but you’re nearly thirty. If you start comfort eating now, it’ll go straight to your waistline, just like your mother. And you know how much I love your figure.”

He says it like a compliment, but all Bucky can hear is self-interest. How Brock wants a trophy husband and isn’t interested in one who doesn’t cut an appropriately dashing figure on his arm. It makes Bucky wonder if his mom and dad’s relationship was always like this too, or if there was ever a point where they actually cared about each other.

They eat in terse silence for the rest of the meal, until finally, Brock sets his knife and fork down on his plate with a sigh. “Don’t you want to hear my good news?”

Bucky forces down the last mouthful of his salad. To call it unappetising would be unfair. It’s not bad, but it’s got nothing on the steak he really wanted. “Okay, what is it?”

Brock smiles brightly and this, at least, is genuine. But—they’re talking about him again, so it would be.

He takes Bucky’s hand across the table. “I’ve got a promotion. Rollins is taking the head of department role and I’m going to be Pierce’s new right-hand man.”

On any other day, it might be good news. But after the day Bucky’s had, he feels about as enthusiastic as someone left in a dark room by themselves with a solitary party popper to celebrate New Year’s. “Great,” he says, trying to inject the response with fake enthusiasm because he at least isn’t as much of an asshole as Brock.

Obviously it doesn’t work, because Brock makes a frustrated noise and withdraws his hand. “You could at least try to be excited.”

“I am. It just hasn’t been a good day, all right?”

“Look… I know you’re upset about your job, but have you considered this might be for the best? Your mother is wonderful at all the charity work she does, and there’s no reason why you couldn’t be the same.”

“Brock—I didn’t study for five years to be a househusband. I’m _good_ at what I do,” Bucky grits out.

His objection might as well go in one ear and out the other.

“I agree,” Brock says officiously. “And you could turn those skills to your advantage in a much lower stress environment.”

The waitress returns with a dessert menu and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. If all he gets out of the rest of tonight is a bowl of overpriced ice cream drenched in chocolate sauce, at least that will be a small victory. He reaches for it.

“No thank you,” Brock says smartly, waving the woman away.

Bucky glares.

“What?” Brock gestures dismissively. “You don’t need it. Anyway, as I was saying, you might enjoy being at home better. More time for your hobbies too. You like cooking.”

“I like cooking… _in my spare time_.”

“Which you’d have so much more of! That’s what I told Pierce too, when he said someone had to go.”

Bucky’s stomach flips sickly and he’s almost certain it has nothing to do with the beet and kale salad he just ate. Because if Brock said what Bucky thinks he did…

“You what?” he says, very calmly, fixing Brock with a death-stare.

Brock shrugs like it’s no big deal. “We got advance warning that someone had to go. There were a few names being thrown around, but I thought, you know what? Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if it were you. Pierce agreed.”

Every cell in Bucky’s body feels like it’s fixing for a fight and honestly, at this point, he’s done trying to resist. It’s all he can do just to keep his voice steady, even as his hands are shaking.

“Are you actually telling me the reason I got fired, and you got a promotion, is because you want me to move in with you and play househusband like you haven’t just ruined my career?” he says, unable to keep incredulity out of his voice.

It’s obvious Brock doesn’t get it. The mildly irritated expression on his face says as much. That he can’t figure out why Bucky is making such a big deal out of nothing. He clicks his tongue. “For the last time, you weren’t fired… and I _was_ going to ask you at your parents’ house on Thanksgiving. But since you’re determined to bring it up now, yes. I think it’s time we move in together.”

Complete, deathly silence follows. Bucky feels his fists tighten. He’s pretty sure there are certifiably, legally blind people who see more than Brock. He couldn’t see a hand in front of his face in broad daylight if it wasn’t his own, or he didn’t want to see it.

Maybe Bucky’s just as guilty though, because it’s not like Brock’s changed. He’s always been like this and somehow, Bucky just managed not to see it.

Now, he can’t unsee it.

So fuck what’s convenient. Fuck what his family and the rest of their stupid social climbing friends are going to say. Bucky’s truly done this time.

He throws back his chair and stands up, levelling a finger directly at Brock’s smarmy fucking face. “You know what? I’m not moving in with you, now or ever. I don’t even know why you’d think I would after you got me fired—”

“Not fired, redun—”

“I don’t fucking care about the semantics!” Bucky yells, loud enough that several other people stop eating to watch. _Look at me now, Mom and Dad_. “Either way it was your fault. You’re an asshole who doesn’t think about anyone but himself. You’re self-centred, narcissistic, and a control freak, and I’m done putting up with it.”

“Oh?” Brock challenges calmly. Like he’s speaking to a goddamn child.

“We’re over,” Bucky spits. “For real this time.”

Brock smiles. He looks at Bucky like he hasn’t taken a single word Bucky’s said seriously, but still wants to murder him for embarrassing him like this in a restaurant of their peers. To be fair, it’s not like they haven’t broken up before only for Bucky to go back on his words.

But not this time.

“You don’t mean that sweetie. Now sit back down and stop causing a scene,” Brock says, voice dangerously low.

“No,” Bucky says, taking a step backward. He’s determined this is going to be his moment—just like his favourite scene from the Lord of the Rings, when Éowyn takes her helmet off and stabs the Witch-king of Angmar, showing up everyone who’s ever doubted her. “I _do_ mean it.”

“Sit the fuck back down,” Brock hisses.

Any pretence of politeness is gone, and Bucky knows the only reason Brock hasn’t raised his voice yet is because he doesn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than Bucky already is.

“Go fuck yourself,” Bucky announces, loud and clear. A wild thrill shoots up his spine as several more heads turn. “I’m not going to sit down and I’m not moving in with you. You’re an asshole, and I’m going home to figure out what the fuck to do with my life now that you’ve ruined it, thank you very much.”

He moves to leave, then as an afterthought, turns and adds spitefully, “And on the way, I’m going by a bodega to get one of those half gallon tubs of cookie dough ice cream you hate so much. Then I’m going to eat the whole thing, in my pyjamas, on the couch, watching Netflix. And I’m not going to go to the gym tomorrow.”

Brock scowls but Bucky doesn’t care. He’s in too deep to back out now. A cheerful looking elderly man with thick-rimmed glasses, slicked back hair and a painter’s moustache smiles, giving Bucky a thumbs up. “Good for you, son!”

Bucky smiles back, feeling proud of himself for finally doing what he should’ve done last Christmas, if not earlier.

To add insult to injury, he gives Brock a very public middle finger salute before high-tailing it out of the restaurant without paying. Let him deal with the bill on his own.

It’s past nine by the time Bucky gets home with his tub of ice cream.

There are a bunch of messages on his phone from his mom, Becca, Nat and Clint, all of which he ignores in favour of collapsing onto the couch with his ice cream, a blanket, and some trashy romance movie that’s playing on TV. The adrenaline he had earlier seems to have seeped away like a slowly-deflating balloon, leaving behind only a numb sense of emptiness.

Under normal circumstances, he would usually roll his eyes at the ridiculously contrived meet cute movie he’s watching. It’s not the least bit believable. No real person ever got their happily ever after just from tripping over someone in the street and trading a bit of witty banter. It’s totally out of touch with reality. But, at times like these, Bucky wishes the fantasy was real. Just a little bit.

He spoons ice cream into his mouth, realising all too late he’s ugly-crying at the happy ending, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his pyjamas.

Sometime after that he must fall asleep, because it’s early morning when he wakes, with an ache in his neck of the kind that makes him very aware he’s in his late twenties, and just slept somewhere he probably shouldn’t have. The rest of his tub of ice cream is still sitting on the coffee table, looking unpleasantly congealed in the thin wintry light. Yesterday’s memories come rushing back, roughly the same level of appealing.

But before Bucky really has time to start feeling sorry for himself again, his phone rings. It’s a battle to dig it out from the cracks between the couch cushions, though he does eventually manage.

“Hello?” he says groggily.

“Oh darling, you sound terrible…”

As always, his mom talks at a million miles an hour. Apparently, Brock’s family have already told her the news, so now she wants Bucky to come over and help with Thanksgiving preparations. He knows it’s just her way of trying to help—of giving him something to do that isn’t sinking into a one man self-pity party on the couch.

But it’s also the last thing in the world he feels like doing. Second only to seeing Brock again maybe…

“I wouldn’t worry about it darling,” she says with confidence. “It’s not like you two haven’t broken up and gotten back together again. I’ve already invited the Rumlows over for Thanksgiving and we’ll sort it all out then, I promise. Brock’s not an unreasonable man and I know he cares about you…”

 _Yeah sure_ , Bucky thinks. Cares about him the same way a dragon cares about its treasure maybe.

He doesn’t tell her that though.

In any case, by the time he hangs up a quarter hour later, Bucky’s beginning to come to terms with the fact that it’s not going to be possible to crawl under a rock and hide from this. No matter how much he wants to. 

He checks the rest of his messages.

> Becca: I’m glad for you, you know. Not about the job. But it’s about time someone told Brock to go fuck himself in the middle of a fancy Tribeca restaurant. He’s never going to live that down. You’re my new hero. 

It makes Bucky feel marginally less crap. As much as he might get tired of his parent’s veneration of Becca and her wildly successful career, it’s not really her fault. Excellence is just how she operates. She doesn’t do it deliberately to spite him. And when it counts, she’s always on his side. 

> Clint: Do you think he’s been abducted by aliens?
> 
> Nat: Really Clint? Bucky, hey, are you there? How did yesterday go?

Bucky hesitates, pursing his lips. He could lie. But Nat, at least, would probably see right through it.

> Bucky: I don’t have a boyfriend or a job anymore. You decide.

There’s a minute or so delay. Then a set of ellipses appear in their group chat, followed by a message.

> Nat: Oh shit. I’m so sorry. What happened?
> 
> Bucky: Apparently someone had to be made redundant and Brock decided I was it. So I dumped him.
> 
> Clint: What a fucking asshole!
> 
> Bucky: Yeah.

There’s really nothing else he can say. It’s a shitty situation, and trying to make it sound any less like one is just polishing a turd, which Bucky definitely does not have the energy or inclination for right now.

> Clint: So what are you doing? Do you want us to come around?
> 
> Nat: I’ll bet he’s on the couch in his pyjamas, eating ice cream and watching trashy romantic movies like he always does after a break up. That’s what you’re doing, right Bucky?”
> 
> Bucky: I am not.
> 
> Clint: Haha you actually are, aren’t you?
> 
> Nat: All right. We’re coming over. Don’t go anywhere.

As if Bucky would. He has no intention of going back on his promise to Brock that he won’t go near a gym today. And going anywhere else would mean leaving his comfortable sanctum of misery, which is definitely not something he’s emotionally ready for yet. His heart feels stripped and bare, like the icy wind outside would cut right through it.

An hour or so later Nat and Clint show up with bags of supplies, just as Bucky’s crying over another ill-fated gay romance movie, in which the love interest returns to his wife at the end of summer. What Bucky wouldn’t give for his own summer fling with a hunky blond like that…

Nat unpacks the shopping onto Bucky’s cramped kitchen counter. “I have potato chips, ice cream, alcohol…”

It’s enough food to feed an army. An emotionally compromised diabetic army maybe, but Bucky appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

“All right,” Clint announces with characteristic cheer, sprawling himself over the couch next to Bucky with an open packet of potato chips on his stomach. He commandeers the TV remote and switches the movie off. “You’re only digging yourself a deeper hole watching this stuff. I know exactly what you need…”

Bucky raises a sceptical eyebrow.

Clint grins. “It’s time for a Lord of the Rings marathon. Extended cut.”

Nat pulls the blinds down and the three of them settle onto the couch, preparing for the long-run with junk food and alcoholic drinks. As the first notes of the soundtrack ring out, and Frodo leaps up from beneath his tree, book long-forgotten, Bucky too, begins to forget his troubles.

It doesn’t matter that he’s seen all three movies at least a dozen times before, or that he knows exactly how they end. All that matters is they’re a safe place to return to. An old friend, just as much as the fraying waffle blanket he's hunkered down under right now, spooning ice cream into his mouth with more enthusiasm than a bargain shopper at TJ Maxx on the morning of Black Friday.

This is what life’s really about, he thinks. Spending time with people he can be himself around. Who don’t care that he has a probably unhealthy penchant for junk food and trashy movies, and no job to go to next week. It’s the ultimate expression of friendship. Like their own little fellowship.

The hours slide away. They drink and heckle the characters. Talk about how obviously gay Sam and Frodo are, and how on earth it was possible for people not to see it when the movies first came out. They debate where they’d re-shoot the scenes in the United States, picking locations they’ve all been to like Washington state, Wyoming, or Colorado.

But it’s about the time Clint suggests they should take a drink every time the words ‘hobbit,’ ‘ring,’ or ‘Mordor,’ are spoken, that things begin to turn wild.

“So,” Nat begins, turning to Bucky and Clint halfway through the second movie, eyes gleaming in an altogether concerning manner. “If you could pick one character to get it on with, who would it be?”

“I value my life too much to answer that,” Clint declares, refilling his glass and looking expectantly at Bucky.

“Don’t look at me, I’m heartbroken,” Bucky objects. He’s aiming for humour, but there’s a sliver of truth to it that hits a little too close to home not to hurt. Not so much because he’s actually cut up over dumping Brock, but more because it feels like at his age, it might mean his romantic life is truly over for good.

Next to him, Nat snorts, choking on her drink. “Well if neither of you will pick, I’ll do it for you. Clint, you’d obviously pick Arwen. I mean, every straight guy I know would pick Arwen. Hell, I’d pick Arwen.”

Clint shrugs, like that’s a fair assessment.

“And Bucky…” Nat grins. “You look like a Faramir kind of guy.”

Bucky frowns. “What exactly about my track record with relationships makes you think that?”

Giggling quietly, Nat takes another sip of her drink. “Hey, I’m not talking about your history of poor taste in men. The quietly principled type hiding a heart of gold? Just what you need. Trust me.”

“Maybe…” Bucky concedes wistfully. He could go for those dreamy blue eyes and scruff of a beard. There is something about facial hair on a guy that makes him feel all gooey inside.

“I was right,” Nat says, nudging Clint gleefully. “Look, he’s gone all daydreamy.”

“I have not!”

“Have too.”

Bucky pouts at her and snuggles deeper into his blanket.

It’s dark outside, nearly midnight by the time Frodo and Sam are venturing into the scorching caverns of Mt. Doom for the final destruction of the ring.

That’s when Clint makes a crazy suggestion. “You know,” he says, grabbing another handful of popcorn and addressing Bucky. “You should totally come with us on our next trip.”

From the way he’s slurring it should be patently obvious it’s a terrible idea. Probably the worst idea since Bucky’s parents decided a family camping trip to the Canadian Rockies would make an excellent vacation, when neither of them had ever pitched a tent in their life. Realistically, the last thing Bucky needs is to be running away from his problems. But, under the hazy comforting influence of alcohol, and buoyed by friendship, Bucky finds himself going with the flow.

“That’d be cool,” he says, enthusiastic in a way it’s easy to be when none of what they’re talking about is remotely close to becoming reality.

There ensues a heated discussion about the particulars of the destination. Nat and Clint are still arguing over the relative merits of Vietnam and Australia, bouncing ideas off each other like they’ve done a million times before. Which country will offer the best photos, promotional opportunities, and all that other stuff which matters to social media influencers. It makes the whole thing sound more like a business decision than a holiday. They might as well be discussing the budget for an unexpected root canal.

Bucky drifts off like he’s floating in an elvish boat, borne away to the Grey Havens along with Frodo and Gandalf.

“New Zealand,” he blurts out suddenly.

“What?” Clint and Nat say at the same time, turning to look at him like he’s grown a second head.

“We should go to New Zealand,” he repeats, pointing at the screen.

He’s always thought New Zealand looked like a fantastical, otherworldly place. More like a movie set than somewhere that actually existed in the world. So far away it always seemed about as realistic to visit as the South Pole.

Clint perks up immediately. “That’s an idea. It’s Christmas in summer there too! And we could stay for New Year.”

Nat tilts her head thoughtfully. “I can work with that,” she concludes.

In short order, the three of them are searching tourist attractions and general information.

“Look!” Clint enthuses, shoving his phone in Nat’s face, “Their national bird is this big ball of fluff. And apparently they even name themselves after it. Kiwis.”

“I don’t know why that’s a selling point…” Nat rolls her eyes.

“Oh hey! Hobbiton is an actual place,” Bucky adds, nearly dropping his phone on the floor in his excitement. 

The suggestions come thick and fast after that, only exceeded by the volume of alcohol the three of them consume while they’re planning their make-believe trip. By the end of it all, Clint’s drawing geographically-challenged maps while Nat plots a motorhome road trip like it’s a military campaign. Most of Bucky’s contribution involves sneaking movie filming locations onto the itinerary when he thinks no one’s looking.

The excitement and company is exactly what he needed to push Brock to one side for a while though. Even if, deep down, Bucky knows this is nothing more than a momentary distraction. Literally the last thing he should be doing, having just lost his job, is going on an expensive holiday overseas. He’s going to wake up tomorrow and have to face reality again.

But fuck it. For tonight at least, tomorrow can wait.

“American Airlines flies there,” Nat says, staring intently at her phone screen.

“Not American…” Clint groans.

“And there’s a special deal for Thanksgiving. I guess no one wants to fly then.”

The rest of the night fades into a blur of easy camaraderie and upbeat cheer. The last thing Bucky remembers is laughing about how much further their money would go in New Zealand with the favourable exchange rates, and debating whether or not everyone there owns their own personal sheep. Do they ride around on them?

He wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and the music loop of the movie’s home screen playing on repeat. It does nothing to help his head. Beside him, Clint is snoring and dribbling all over the cushions, while Nat sits at the kitchen bench looking only slightly worse for wear. How does she always do that?

Bucky picks up his phone to check the time. There’s a new email notification he didn’t notice last night. Frowning, he opens it.

Airline tickets. To New Zealand. On 22 November.

_Oh fuck._

They didn’t just talk about it. They actually did it.

Bucky’s family are going to kill him.

“Morning,” Nat says, offering him a mug of coffee. “Ready for the vacation of a lifetime?”

Bucky groans, holding his head in his hands. “Ready to be disowned more like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * Every New Zealander does not own their own sheep. But there are about 5.5 sheep for every person here.
>   * It's not uncommon for kids on rural properties to have a pet lamb. 
>   * Yes, I have ridden one. When I was like 5 years old. No, I wouldn't try it now.
> 



	2. Aotearoa: Land of the Long White Cloud

As predicted, Bucky’s parents are well and truly irate at his impulsive decision to go on a sudden prolonged vacation. His mom especially, although from the way his dad stands straight-backed and stiff beside her while she vents at Bucky, he’s every bit as angry as she is. What’s less clear is whether he’s annoyed at Bucky’s choice, or just at the fact he’s upsetting his mom in a way that makes life difficult for him.

“How could you?” she demands tearfully in the spotless gleaming kitchen of their family home. “After everything I’ve done. Think about the kind of message it sends Brock and his parents!”

A rude one, Bucky can only hope. But he doesn’t dare say as much, maintaining a sullen silence like he’s five years old and in trouble for finger painting rainbows on the walls again.

Mouth tightening, his dad shakes his head—the epitome of _‘I’m not angry, just disappointed.’_ As though Bucky letting him down is just par for the course at this point.

“You’re making it very difficult to help you get a new job,” he complains. “I have a colleague who’s looking to hire any day now, but he’ll have the position filled by the time you get back.”

Bucky sighs. “I don’t want a job with a law firm Dad. That’s not what I do.”

“I don’t know what else you propose. You have to do something and you won’t get a marketing job this side of New Year.”

“Maybe the time away will be good.” Bucky squares his shoulders defensively. “You know, after everything that’s happened...”

It’s clear neither of his parents agree though. Truthfully, Bucky isn’t sure he does anymore either. It was easy to feel as though he was making the right choice at the time, emboldened as he was by a sense of righteous indignation at Pierce and Brock. But in the cold light of an entirely new day, his decisions seem petulant, almost childish. Maybe his parents are right, and what he had was as good as it was going to get.

There’s still time to change his mind. If he cancels the flight now, he might get some of his money back. And maybe a Thanksgiving spent with Brock really will change things between them. 

“Oh for God’s sake,” Becca huffs in irritation when they meet for coffee later that day at Bucky’s favourite café. “Don’t let them make you doubt yourself. Brock was always an asshole and he’s never going to change. Take the vacation.”

“They hate me,” Bucky moans dramatically.

“They don’t hate you,” she says, laughing fondly. “They just don’t understand you because you’ve never shared the same aspirations as them. They don’t know what to do with that.”

As ever, Becca proves she’s infinitely better at this whole adulting thing than Bucky is.

“Have fun,” she instructs firmly when they part, all but squeezing the life out of him. “I’m jealous. You’d better send lots of photos.”

“I will,” Bucky promises.

Still, the trip only begins to feel real a day or two later, when Bucky begins the business of packing for six weeks away.

It’s hard to get his head around it. No matter how much he knows, logically, that it’s currently spring going on summer in the Southern Hemisphere, there’s something fundamentally impossible about packing like you’re about to go down to the beach when it’s forty-four degrees and the streets outside are covered in slush. Plus, he’s always been a haphazard packer at best. If half of what he needs ends up in his suitcase at his destination, he counts it as a victory. Everything else is what credit cards were invented for.

By the time the day of the actual flight rolls around, Bucky still can’t decide whether the sick feeling in his stomach is doubt or excitement. Or maybe some combination of both, rolled up into a high-strung nervousness that has him uncharacteristically awake at the crack of dawn for a connecting flight that doesn’t depart until mid-morning. By then, it’s a small miracle he hasn’t chewed his fingernails completely off.

Even lugging his oversized suitcase all the way down to the nearest subway station, transferring trains, then dragging it down from the busy arrivals platform into the terminal seems like a refreshing break to all the tension.

Nat and Clint meet him in the departures hall, with Clint waving excitedly enough to draw odd looks from nearby passengers and check-in staff.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no one likes airports. They’re shitty places full of stressed, short-tempered, overly emotional people, and Bucky can never wait to be done with them. So when they finally get airborne from JFK, eschewing the overpriced in-flight food in favour of snacks bought from a bodega in the city, he breathes a sigh of relief. He can still hardly believe they’re going further than L.A. That it’s going to be nearly a full day of travelling before they reach their final destination.

Still closer than Australia though, he supposes.

The wide open spaces of the Midwest slide by beneath them; towns and cities and interstate highways all basking beneath a dusty blue sky. Then there’s the liminal hell that is Los Angeles International. Finding their way from the eerily empty terminal in which they arrive, to the packed chaos of the international departures hall. Screaming children, people arguing with grim-faced TSA agents over having to take their shoes or jackets off, or pushing enormous trolleys of luggage with no sense of direction…

Yep. Who doesn’t love an airport?

The time difference is only three hours, but Bucky’s early start is making it feel like even more. He’s probably been awake for seventeen hours by the time he, Nat and Clint finally settle into their rock-hard departure lounge seats, with an overpriced and underwhelming airport dinner. By then, Bucky’s just about ready to tape his eyelids open.

Thank God for Starbucks. Without the sugar hit of Bucky’s grande Frappuccino, he’d probably be losing his shit by now. And there’s still a whole hour before they board.

Clint and Nat are taking selfies for their Instagram page, looking far more excited about this whole experience than Bucky feels. It is their job though, he supposes. No one wants to follow people who don’t look like they’re living their best life or whatever. That’s why Bucky could never do what they do.

Also, because his life achievements currently stand at losing both a boyfriend and a job in the same day. Which—while it’s certainly overachieving—is almost certainly overachieving in the wrong direction to want to advertise publicly.

He hunkers down in the plastic seat, leaning his head back. The ceiling of the departures hall is vaulted and utilitarian, speckled with years of accumulated dirt over what might once have been white paint. Do people deliberately design airports to be as ugly and uncomfortable as possible, he wonders? 

His seat is definitely making it feel that way. But at least it’s helping him keep his mind off his situation. How—all day long—he’s found himself flip-flopping between whether taking this vacation is the right thing to do, or a huge mistake, every time there’s a spare moment to think. Which—since travel is mostly short periods of complete chaos interspersed with long periods of boredom—is pretty much all the time.

Right now, Bucky’s inclined to think he’s making the right choice. Even so, doubts still linger, eating away at him like meltwater beneath a frozen stream. Maybe it’s because he’s always tried to measure up to his parents’ expectations for him. Always tried to be the good son, and to keep up with Becca, even when he knows it’s not what he really wants.

So, to be doing something just because _he_ wants to, is a new and novel concept…

He must nod off for a while, because next thing he knows there’s a voice over the loudspeaker announcing that their flight is boarding. Bucky checks his phone. It’s just before nine local time. Midnight in New York.

“You ready?” Clint asks, positively vibrating with excitement.

Where he gets the energy, Bucky doesn’t know. Nodding, he stifles a yawn behind his hand. Hard to believe that less than a week ago he thought he was in a stable, if not entirely happy relationship, anticipating the presentation that was going to advance him up the ranks at work. Now, he’s jetting off halfway around the world, unemployed and single.

Way to run from his problems.

They file onto a bigger plane than the first, finding their seats about midway down the cabin. There’s a plastic-wrapped blanket and set of headphones on Bucky’s which he almost manages to sit on before noticing and stuffing them in the seat pocket in front of him. Then comes an introductory announcement, in an unusual accent Bucky suspects is going to become very familiar over the next few weeks.

“Wilcome on board thus Air New Ziland flight…” the flight attendant says, mangling her vowels with an impossibly cheerful smile.

As the last lights of L.A. slip out of sight on the coastline behind them, there’s nothing but the flash of the aircraft’s wingtips and pitch black ocean for the next six-thousand miles.

Bucky tucks a pillow behind his head and falls fast asleep.

It’s a bumpy descent, which is the first thing Bucky doesn’t like. It’s not that he’s a nervous flyer—well, not exactly. He knows they’re not going to fall out of the sky or anything. But theoretically they _could_ , and that’s what gets his heart beating a little faster than usual. Has him staring out the window for any sign of the ground. Any indication it’s going to be over soon.

They break out of low-hanging overcast over the rain-soaked fields and rolling hills of Auckland just as it’s getting light.

Clint nudges Bucky, giving him a thumbs up. Nat smiles. Weakly, Bucky returns the gesture. There are trails of water streaming back along his window. On the other side of the plane, he can just make out a large sprawling city, grey on grey beneath the persistent drizzle.

Not exactly a fortuitous beginning.

Still, after thirteen hours in one seat, Bucky’s just happy to be getting off the goddamn plane.

Inside the terminal, New Zealand Customs and Immigration seem determined to make up for the lack of sunshine with their confoundingly cheerful behaviour. The woman working Bucky’s queue smiles brightly at the fellow American ahead of him, laughing politely when the elderly man regales her with stories of a fishing trip he took here, years ago. She looks like the bubbly kind of person who’d lighten the atmosphere in any office.

“You haven’t brought any food with you though? No fruit, vegetables or meat, is that right?” she asks breezily, checking over the man’s declaration form once more.

“No ma’am,” he assures her.

“Excellent.” She stamps it and hands it back to him, seemingly in no particular hurry. “Enjoy your stay.”

Bucky can’t imagine the TSA ever being that friendly.

When it’s his turn, she’s all smiles and pleasantries again, chatting to him about his planned itinerary and smiling when he mentions he’s a Lord of the Rings fan.

“Oh, my uncle was an extra in that!” she says brightly, stamping his paper form. “One of the orcs. Make sure you don’t miss Hobbiton…”

Bucky assures her he won’t.

Finally, just over a day after leaving New York—and only after promising he’s not committing eco-terrorism by trying to smuggle any contraband vegetation or food into the country—Bucky officially sets foot on New Zealand soil. Just in time for breakfast.

It feels like it should be late afternoon.

He messages Becca. 

> Bucky: Arrived safe
> 
> Becca: How is it?
> 
> Bucky: Different. Wet. Everyone sounds weird.
> 
> Becca: Oh cheer up grump. If it were the same as home it wouldn’t be worth going.

Bucky puts his phone away. She’s probably right. But since he’s tired from travelling, hurting from the events of last week, and now in an unfamiliar place on top of it all, about the last thing he feels like doing is dealing with it, truth be told.

Lucky then that Nat and Clint are in their element. And they’re determined to drag Bucky along with them, whether he wants to enjoy the experience or not.

About an hour later, as they sit in a motorhome in gridlocked traffic on something that looks like it’s aspiring to be an American freeway but falling far short, Bucky questions his life choices again. It turns out New Zealand has rush-hour traffic too. And between the aggressive lane-changing and overzealous horn use, he might as well be back at home.

The rain’s still coming down too, persistent and heavy, and there’s nothing much to see beyond it—a status-quo that persists through the entire hour it takes them to go through the centre of the city and back out the northern side. There’s a brief hint of one or two skyscrapers, even something that looks vaguely reminiscent of the Space Needle in Seattle, before it all fades back into the murk faster than Bucky has a chance to take it in.

In the front of the van, Clint and Nat chat happily.

On the uncomfortable foam seats in the back, Bucky broods. Call him stupid, but he didn’t realise their motorhome was going to be so small. Not at all like the generously proportioned and kitted out models his parents always hired for their family road trips in the States. There’s a cramped double bed above the front cab and another fold-out affair beneath Bucky’s couch, with only the bare minimum fixtures and equipment required to make it habitable. Maybe that’s normal for New Zealand, or maybe Clint and Nat just cheaped out on it—Bucky wouldn’t know.

Either way, it’s somewhat redefining the parameters of this vacation for him. They’re basically going to be living on top of each other for six weeks. Not exactly glamorous. Certainly not what he had in mind when he pictured this trip, either.

“You alright back there Bucky?” Nat calls out, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror.

Bucky sighs. This was a mistake, wasn’t it?

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Clint turns around then too. “Come on! Where’s your enthusiasm? We’re in a whole different country for six weeks’ vacation. It’s going to be awesome.”

Six. Whole. Weeks.

In a cramped motorhome together.

That figure seems a lot more daunting now than it did the drunken night they booked it. Or at least, Bucky presumes it does, since he doesn’t actually remember most of the night in question. Which is the root of the problem really, he thinks, sitting back and watching the very green, very wet world go by.

It’s the little things that tell him he’s not in Kansas anymore. Or Brooklyn. The way all the cars look different. Smaller and older than he’s used to, and mostly Japanese brands. How the road signs are the wrong colour and shape. Their speeds and distances displayed in kilometres instead of miles.

The building style is different too. More modest, and tending towards single story brick and weatherboard homes set in overgrown semi-tropical backyards. On the northern side of the bridge across the harbour things get a little more upmarket, but still nothing close to the tidy brownstones of back home, or the ostentatious glamour of the mansions in the Hamptons. But maybe they’re just not in the right place for it, Bucky thinks.

It gives him a feeling of being knocked off-balance though. Like this city, the whole country maybe, is lesser somehow. Second-rate compared to home. It’s probably not fair to judge it that way, having been here all of an hour, but first impressions are funny things—once you have them, they’re hard to change.

Just north of Auckland the highway drops back to a single lane each way, with no barrier to separate them from oncoming traffic. It snakes lazily between low-lying hills, giving off the impression it mostly can’t be bothered with the effort of living up to its euphemistic name— ‘State Highway One.’

If this thing is a State Highway it must be aiming for the same kind of standard as Bucky’s career—wild success that that is.

They make their first stop at an attraction optimistically dubbed, ‘Sheepworld.’ As if that’s somehow a selling point. Sure, the dozens of children shelling out handfuls of feed to tame half-grown lambs and shrieking with delight might disagree with Bucky’s scathing assessment. But it still makes him feel like the whole ten percent of New Zealand’s tourism offering which isn’t centred around Lord of the Rings might revolve around sheep instead. Which isn’t setting the bar very high.

That night, they stay at a powered campsite next to an unremarkable beach that’s just as saturated as everything else. From his couch, Bucky stares mournfully out the window. The pewter grey of the sea, sky and rain all seem to blend into one bleak vantage that looks absolutely nothing like Lord of the Rings, and a whole lot more like a particularly depressing East Coast winter.

If Bucky were back home right now, he might be starting his holiday shopping. Sifting through one of the city’s many holiday markets, sipping a latte in the warmth of his favourite artsy café in Williamsburg, or enjoying the Christmas decorations and lights.

Instead, he’s signed up for six whole weeks of this.

The couch beside him shifts and Nat sits down, handing him a mug of hot chocolate. It makes Bucky realise just how tired he is, despite the fact they’ve done absolutely nothing today.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, one eyebrow raised in a way that suggests she knows he really isn’t, but it’s the polite thing to do to let him admit that himself.

In the front cab, Clint’s got his feet up on the dashboard, humming along quietly to some unfamiliar song on the radio.

Bucky stares into his drink, sighing wistfully. “No,” he admits. For all her faults, if there’s anyone who’ll get it, it’s Nat. She might put on a good façade, but she _knows_ people.

“Please tell me you’re not still pining over Brock,” she groans.

“No, it’s not that,” Bucky says quickly. Means it too. Brock could take a long walk off a short pier and Bucky would celebrate. “It’s more… I’m just not sure who I am anymore, you know? Without the relationship and the job.”

Nat nods sympathetically. “You’re still you,” she says firmly. “And you’ll get a better job, next year. Just give it time.”

Still unconvinced, Bucky sips his drink, letting its sugary warmth linger on his tongue, sweet and welcome. “Yeah…”

“And in the meantime, maybe you can use that phone of yours to find yourself a summertime distraction or something, huh?” she suggests, winking.

Bucky snorts sharply into his mug. For the first time since they’ve arrived, he finds it in himself to smile, even if it is a little thin and washed out. “Please Nat, that’s obviously not what I’m here for.”

“No? You disappoint me Barnes.”

“Why? Sheep aren’t my type…”

She laughs at that, landing a light punch on his shoulder. “Touché.”

After she retreats back to the cab, Bucky stares once more through the filmy condensation on the window, watching the rhythmic advance and retreat of the waves over the sand. He seems to remember reading somewhere that the Māori translation for New Zealand was ‘Land of the Long White Cloud.’ Looking out there today, it sure seems fitting.

This country is nothing but clouds of one kind or another.

Two more days is more than enough time to convince Bucky there’s literally nothing worse than being stuck in a confined space with two other people. Even if those people happen to be his best friends.

Clint snores, Nat paces, and the rain continues on and off for the entire time.

It’s not exactly conducive to exploring the country or enjoying the trip. Regardless, they continue on as planned, heading for the northernmost tip of New Zealand so they can, as Clint puts it, “Work our way south without missing anything.”

After an overnight in a tiny town called Kaitaia—‘Kai’ rhyming with eye, and ‘taia’ like the tyres of a car, according to the overly friendly manager of the campground they’re staying at—they wake to the first properly clear day of the trip.

Outside the sun shines brightly. Everything feels a little damp and steamy, but finally, the country glows with colours that aren’t grey. Strange iridescent birds with white priest’s collars at their throats flit through the trees, drinking nectar from pink beak-shaped flowers and chasing each other around, chortling outrageously.

Leaving the motorhome feels a bit like leaving a cocoon. As though Bucky too, has been waiting to stretch his wings and figure out which direction he’s supposed to go in, now that his life has changed around him.

He takes a quick photo of the birds and sends it to Becca, feeling slightly more buoyant about the state of the world.

“Pretty!” she replies.

After breakfast, they hit the road again, travelling down an ever-narrowing ‘highway’ mostly devoid of human settlement. It’s all cows, sheep, undulating farmland and scraggly windbreaks. And even that cedes gradually to unkempt-looking scrubland, dotted with unfamiliar plants. Incongruous spindly trees with bursts of green leaves like dandelion puffs, standing head and shoulders above the ground. Enormous thick-leaved bushes with prehistoric flowering branches that sprout to twice their height. Feather-duster grasses that lean in the breeze.

It’s all wild, exotic and totally unfamiliar to Bucky.

The bulk of their company on the road is other motorhomes, hire cars and the occasional logging truck. At one point, to Bucky’s complete astonishment, they even cross a one lane bridge, where cars from each side take turns giving way so the opposite direction traffic can cross. One lane! Whoever thought to call this thing a highway clearly grew up in the sticks…

Eventually the road climbs up a gentle incline, flanked by a white sand beach to the left and low rocky cliffs to the right. It ends in a sealed loop parking lot labelled ‘Cape Reinga,’ where Nat pulls to a stop and they all pile out.

It’s desolate and windswept, and a long way from anywhere.

But at least the air is fresh and clear, and there’s no sign of rain from the scrappy clouds racing across the sky.

“Look at this!” Clint enthuses, spreading his arms wide at the vista while Nat mucks around getting their photography equipment out of the motorhome.

They walk along a gravel path which crunches beneath Bucky’s shoes as it leads down the thin rocky peninsula to a small lighthouse. The structure is set within a viewing area, surrounded on three sides by a churning and restless ocean. Beside it stands a curious signpost, with yellow panels arrayed in every possible direction, indicating the distances and directions to various major world cities.

Bucky circles it, searching.

Los Angeles, Vancouver, and even London. But no New York. He really is a long way from home.

Tourists mill about, laughing, chatting and taking photos. Nat and Clint get in on the action too, snapping away from various angles. Clint even props himself up on the signpost, about three feet off the ground, angling his body out at ninety degrees.

“Hurricane!” he yells, sporting his usual cheerful grin.

It’s a pose Bucky recognises pretty well by now. There are any number of photos just like it on their Instagram page. Some even feature Clint adopting the same position on street signs bearing his own name, of which there are several in different cities around the USA. It’s not really Bucky’s thing, happy as he is that Nat and Clint have found their niche. But he still does his best to be a supportive friend. As usual, it means he ends up taking photos of them against the backdrop of the sign, then the lighthouse, then the ocean.

It’s not really what he imagined a vacation to New Zealand would be. Obviously there’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s just a bit disappointing, in an underwhelming kind of way. Not that Bucky ever expected the place would be overrun with elves, or hobbits, or that there’d be a scale replica of Rivendell just sitting around, waiting for him to walk off the plane and visit it. But there was something magical, ethereal almost, about the fictional New Zealand he’d built up in his mind after so many years of watching movies and reading glossy travel magazines. 

Against that, he supposes the real thing had no hope of ever stacking up.

But maybe that’s the thing about travel. You go expecting Fourth of July fireworks, and what you really end up with is a handful of cheap sparklers—entertaining in the short-term, but ultimately, not worth the trouble.

 _Oh well_ , Bucky thinks, snapping another photo. If nothing else, at least he can enjoy the time off. A break before he has to face up to the reality of what awaits him back home in New York. Could be worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * Cape Reinga is actually not quite the northernmost point of New Zealand. It loses that honour to North Cape which is 3km further north, but far less accessible.
>   * The graphic for the title of this chapter is modelled on the Cape Reinga signpost. The distances quoted are from JFK to Auckland Airport. As of 2018 there were no direct flights though. They were meant to start this year. So much for that!
>   * It's pretty much impossible to bring food into New Zealand unless it's heavily processed (e.g. confectionary). Trying to do so makes you public enemy number one. We have an entire local reality TV show dedicated to our customs service catching people bringing fruit, meat, honey, untreated wood, plants, dirty camping gear etc into the country. All stuff that could harm our unique native biodiversity.
> 

> 
> Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates it! I hope you're having a nice holiday break. Since this chapter and the next are shorter than all the others in this story I'm planning to release Chapter 3 in a few days, then Chapter 4 on the usual schedule of Jan 1st, time permitting! Am I impatient to share Bucky meeting Steve in Chapter 3? Yes, yes I am ;)


	3. Death by Charming Serial Killer

Leaving Clint and Nat to work on their endless variety of poses alone, Bucky wanders toward the edge of the viewing area, enclosed by a waist-height stone wall. Beyond the rugged cliffs beneath it the waters churn in a dark maelstrom of grey-blue spray. It looks a bit how Bucky feels right now—that coming to New Zealand might have been a bad idea after all. He could have wallowed in self-pity at home. It would’ve cost less.

Halfway to the wall, his eye is drawn to a lone figure, already standing there at the edge. A man, poised and perfectly still, in quiet contemplation of the view. He’s tall and broad shouldered, with muscles to the days, which Bucky can tell because he’s wearing a light blue shirt that’s got to be at least one size too small for him. Two even.

Hell, Bucky thinks, following the taper of the guy’s back down to a narrow waist and perfectly proportioned ass, even his muscles have muscles. He’s like a football player. Or how a football player would look if he was the product of Bucky’s wildest gay fantasies.

Bucky swallows, hard. Inching forward, he grips the stone and stares pointedly out at the mixing waters.

Like—Muscles over there is probably not that good looking anyway, right? No one who has the time and inclination to maintain a body like that is. He’s probably got one of those really unfortunate faces that only a mother could love, and the whole rippling Adonis look is the only thing he’s got going for him. Right?

_Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look._

Bucky looks.

_Oh fuck—_

Muscles has a jawline like a fine carved marble statue. Ear-length blond hair styled into a casual sweep back. A thick well-groomed beard that would probably feel amazing pressed against Bucky’s skin.

 _Fuck me_ , Bucky thinks. Wishes too. Not only does he look like you could climb him like a tree, but you could do it with the lights on. You’d have to, just to look at all— _that_. For a second he wonders if he’s said as much out loud, or maybe Muscles is just telepathic too. At this point, nothing would surprise Bucky.

Either way, Muscles catches his gaze with unfairly breath-taking blue eyes, almost a perfect match for the water, flecked with just the slightest hint of green around the pupil. He takes Bucky in, a full rosy mouth quirking up attractively at one corner.

“Pretty spectacular, huh?” he says, tilting his head at the view.

Bucky makes some kind of garbled noise he supposes is probably meant to pass for agreement, but definitely agreement that got distracted along the way and arrived at whatever party it was going to half-dressed.

“Sure,” he manages eventually.

Spectacular is one word for it, but it’s not the view Bucky’s thinking of. Or at least, not _that_ view.

Muscles turns to face him properly, arms falling by his sides, and Bucky has to take a moment to compose himself. He is definitely _not_ looking at the way that shirt clings to those biceps. Like they might rip it apart at any second.

Breathing in slowly, he tries to focus his attention on the picture on the front of the shirt instead. That’s safe, right? It’s a silhouetted map of New Zealand, fanned out in all the colours of the rainbow. Next to the image are the words ‘Keep New Zealand Beautiful’.

Is that meant to be meta somehow, he wonders?

But the thought vanishes quickly as he notices the outline of the hard pecs beneath it, and— _holy shit_ —nipples that look like they’re asking to have somebody’s mouth all over them. Bucky’s, preferably.

Something hot and dizzy flutters in his chest. He forces his eyes back to Muscles’ face, only to find that’s a mistake too, because it’s a very attractive face. One whose attention is entirely on Bucky, with a smile that should definitely be illegal.

For a second, Bucky forgets how to breathe.

But okay, so—physical attraction is one thing, and Bucky’s definitely never been the type not to acknowledge that. A guy like this is fun in bed once or twice. But all the guys he’s ever been really into—even Brock, the controlling lowlife asshole he is—have been more than that.

Because here’s the thing—Bucky’s not stupid. Never has been. Sure, he might not put his brain to use as much as his parents would like him to, or in the ways they’d like him to, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. He likes being around people who can talk science, or politics, or challenge his world view on an equal footing. Relationships are no fun otherwise. So if all a guy can talk about is beer and football, or how many pounds he’s lifting at the gym, well—that’s about as good a turn off as an ice bath.

And the thing is, in Bucky’s experience—most guys who look as good as this, can _only_ talk about that.

Muscles turns back to the view, elbows resting on the stone wall, hands tucked beneath his chin. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I’ve always liked the Māori legends about this place. Now I’m here, I think they’re right. There really is something special about it.”

His voice is deep and rich, accented like all the locals here. Lingering on unusual vowels, skipping consonants it shouldn’t, and ending on a rising inflection at the strangest of times. Like now. It makes Bucky feel as though he’s asking a question when he’s really not, and it’s hard not to do a double take and process the meaning all over again. 

Bucky clears his throat, inching closer along the wall. “What do the legends say?” he asks. No doubt Clint and Nat would know—they’re probably busy posting it all over Instagram right now—but Bucky was only too happy to let Nat plan the itinerary, and never bothered to look at it too closely. He probably should have, he realises.

Muscles smiles though, like he doesn’t mind being asked. That’s another strange thing Bucky’s noticed about New Zealanders—they don’t seem to mind talking to complete strangers. In New York, you keep yourself to yourself. It’s only polite. Time is money, and no one has the time, or the money, to stop and exchange pleasantries with a stranger. But here they seek it out—as though the whole place is a village, and if you only get talking with someone else you’ll soon discover you both share a second cousin named Dave, who grew up just down the road and had a role as an extra in Lord of the Rings.

Or something like that, Bucky guesses. 

In any case, he’s not going to complain. At least it helps pass the time until Clint and Nat are finished and they can get back in the motorhome and drive back to civilisation. Somewhere with Wi-Fi and fries. And maybe even a Starbucks, if they have any of those here.

Right now, the nearest place with any of the comforts of home is over a hundred kilometres away—which Bucky only knows because his phone told him so when he looked up the directions to get here. The whole idea is wildly less than comforting for someone used to the hectic bustle of New York. 

Muscles straightens again. He stares out at the distant horizon, hazy through the ocean spray. “According to the stories, this is the embarkation point for the spirits of the recently deceased, before they leave New Zealand on their final journey to the ancestral homeland of Hawaiki, far across the ocean.”

It’s… kind of poetic actually. Exactly the kind of poetic that’s liable to get Bucky in a whole heap of trouble. As though on cue, his stomach does some funny kind of swooping thing that leaves him feeling hot all over. “Oh,” he breathes, only partly due to the story itself, and more the fact that this guy knows it all off the top of his head. “That’s pretty neat.”

“Isn’t it?” Muscles says, looking pleased by Bucky’s reaction. “So… where are you from anyway?”

“What makes you think I’m not local?” Bucky shoots back, just because he can’t help being sassy, and maybe he’d sort of like to see how this guy handles it.

“Apart from the accent?” Muscles says, raising an eyebrow and not bothering to hide the way his eyes stray pointedly down Bucky’s outfit—shorts just a bit on the shorter side of slutty, top showing off his curves, shoes wildly impractical but very fashionable—and back again. He chuckles in a not-unfriendly way, commenting, “You’re from Auckland at the very least.”

Maybe that’s the socially acceptable way of saying _‘you look like a twink’_ in New Zealand. Bucky wouldn’t know.

But in his defence, standing next to this guy would probably make anyone look like a twink, and if he’s dressed a little bit gay, maybe he wasn’t trying not to be. It’s a vacation after all. You’re supposed to have fun on vacations. And this guy—Bucky’s rapidly deciding—looks like a lot of fun.

“New York,” he says, and points to the signpost where Clint and Nat are. “Here on vacation with my friends.”

Muscles follows his finger and makes a face—half bemused, half judgemental—as he watches them struggle to angle the camera enough to cut out an Asian couple who are trying to do exactly the same thing to them. “Ah… the selfie stick brigade.”

Bucky snorts because he’s not wrong, and the guy turns back to him with a definite twinkle in his eye.

“Where are _you_ from?” Bucky asks, just to cover up how much he kind of likes it.

Muscles considers him, head cocked, the hint of a smile playing across his unreasonably expressive lips. “Lindis Pass.”

Bucky stares blankly. Where? 

Muscles’ smile only grows wider. “Tarras.”

Which doesn’t really help at all—and Bucky’s got a feeling this guy knows it. That he’s toying with him deliberately. “And Tarras is…” Bucky says, gesticulating for elaboration. 

“Near Wanaka.”

Okay... so now he’s just making a game of it. Leading Bucky on in a tit-for-tat exchange of geography he knows he can’t possibly win.

“Oh, _Wanaka_ ,” Bucky says, because if this guy’s determined to be a smartass, Bucky can work with that. “That really narrows it down. Considering how well I know your country.”

“Central Otago. The South Island,” Muscles offers, definitely not bothering to hide his grin anymore.

He’s obviously enjoying this far too much.

At least one part of what he said registers with Bucky, though. Something about Otago, and someplace they were planning to visit. Where was it again?

“Otago… Is that near umm… Dunedin?” Bucky says, hopeful he’s actually onto something this time.

Muscles laughs. It’s deep, cheerful and attractive, and it looks good on him. “Tarras is about three hours away from Dunedin, but yeah, sure. Close enough. You guys rented a GPS with your campervan though, right?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Why? You worried we’re going to get lost?”

“Honestly—yes.” Muscles’ expression still suggests he’s taking this a lot less than seriously though, his mouth barely holding a straight line. “I’d hate for you and your friends to be stranded on the side of the road, at the mercy of some passing motorist up to no good.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, I imagine that would be traumatic. About as much as learning for the first time that mobile phones and Google Maps actually exist.”

Muscles looks at him, eyebrows twitching like he can’t believe he’s just been sassed back. Then he laughs again, even harder this time. “All right, you can have that one,” he concedes, offering Bucky a good-natured smile.

Bucky grins, turning to check on Nat and Clint. They look like they’re finally finishing up.

“So…” Muscles says, stretching his arms behind his head in a way that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. “What do you think of New Zealand so far?” 

Maybe Bucky should lie and say it’s fantastic. That would probably be the polite thing to do. But he’s a New Yorker. Telling it like it is, is pretty much mandatory to count yourself a citizen.

He shrugs. “So far we’ve been here exactly four days, and it’s rained non-stop for three. We saw some sheep at what might be the most unexciting attraction on the planet, and I’m yet to see a single hobbit. You could say I’m underwhelmed.”

Muscles nods along, seeming to digest all of this like it’s completely fair criticism. His bright blue eyes meet Bucky’s. There’s something about them, honest and genuine, and the attractive way they’re crinkled around the edges that knocks Bucky entirely off-kilter.

He should look away, but he can’t seem to, and Muscles doesn’t either.

“That’s a real shame,” Muscles says. “But you know… I think I know what your problem is.”

“Oh?” Bucky asks, as though it’s a challenge. Which it kind of is. He’s curious to see what this guy’s going to say.

“Uh huh,” Muscles hums, pointing toward Nat and Clint. “You’re stuck following the tourist trail, only seeing the stuff you think you should see instead of experiencing the real country.”

It’s a bold statement, but Bucky decides he’ll bite. “And I suppose _you_ have the solution to this problem?”

For a second Muscles looks surprised. Then he smiles, almost to himself. Looks away, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe the direction this whole conversation has taken.

Which is fair, because Bucky’s having a pretty hard time believing it himself. From the weightless floaty feeling in his chest, what started as killing time ogling a hot guy now feels like it could be a whole lot more. Like… if he’d met Muscles at a club somewhere in New York, he’d probably already have him pushed up against a wall, or— _fuck_ —laid out flat on a bed somewhere, stripping that ridiculously tight shirt right off him and getting his mouth everywhere…

Hot Guy’s eyes find their way back to Bucky’s, and if there’s not mischief in them, Bucky’s not hopelessly gay with a knack for attracting men who are bad news.

“It’s not a solution as such,” he says slowly, looking like he’s gauging Bucky’s reaction as he goes. “But I do have a spare seat back to Whangārei. Or Auckland, if you’ve got a couple of spare days.”

A shiver, hot and excited, surges down Bucky’s spine. He tamps it down, keeping his voice even when he asks, “Are you offering me a ride?”

The statement sounds ridiculous even to his ears. What kind of idiot invites a complete stranger into their car? What kind of idiot _accepts_? That’s like going somewhere alone on the very first date.

At least Muscles has the good manners to look a little abashed. His face takes on a truly lovely shade of pink and he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah… I guess I am.”

It’s impossible for Bucky not to laugh, at least a little. “You know that seems like exactly the sort of thing a serial killer might do, right? Pretty much every travel guide I’ve ever read says hitchhiking is a terrible idea, even in New Zealand.”

Hot Guy makes a face which suggests he probably agrees, at least in part. “They’re not wrong. I actually wouldn’t recommend it.”

Bucky smiles at his honesty. “Hmm. Might accidentally end up in a car with one of those motorists up to no good huh?”

“Yeah. Might do,” Muscles agrees with a warm smile.

Bucky snorts. God it’s tempting though. He doesn’t look like a serial killer. But that’s probably what everyone who ever got in the car with a serial killer thought. Otherwise they would never have done it in the first place.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Muscles blurts out suddenly, looking all self-conscious. “I mean, it’s just, the offer is there… if you’d like.”

It’s kind of cute actually, that he’s worried.

And it’s that as much as anything else which finally makes up Bucky’s mind. That and the spike of irritation he feels when Clint appears by his side, interrupting the highly delicate chemistry at play here. 

“You making friends Bucky? Because we’re good to go,” Clint says, gesturing at the track back to the parking lot, where Nat stands, waving.

Bucky stares daggers at him. Then back to Muscles, who offers a tentative and very non-murdery smile. Then back to Clint.

And all the long days yet to come on this trip play across Bucky’s mind—exactly how many nights he’s going to spend lying awake listening to Clint snoring, or the amount of time he’ll spend fishing Nat’s hair out of the plughole when it gets blocked again, or vacating the campervan to give the two of them some ‘alone time’ together.

Weighed against all that, a few days apart in six whole weeks—it couldn’t hurt. After all, it’s really _their_ road trip, not Bucky’s.

Besides, fuck it—death by charming serial killer in New Zealand would be a hell of a way to go. Bucky would definitely make the news back home at least.

Clint looks expectant, but Bucky shakes his head, making a funny noise low in his throat. It’s hard to find the words he’s looking for. Words that don’t just sound like _‘I’m totally taking a lead from my dick here and leaving with this incredibly hot guy’_.

“Um… well actually, my new friend—“ he begins, screeching to a halt and glancing at Hot Guy in a flash of panic when he realises he doesn’t even know his name.

“Steve,” Muscles supplies seamlessly, as though they’ve already talked about this and Bucky’s just forgetful.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, liking the way the name sounds rolling off his tongue. “So Steve’s heading south too, and he’s offered me a ride as far as Auckland. I figure I might as well take it and meet you and Nat there in a few days. Give you a bit of time together without me tagging along.”

“Oh sure,” Clint says, with an expression that could be mistaken for neutral by anyone who doesn’t know him, but says very certainly to anyone who does that he absolutely knows what Bucky’s up to, and it really has nothing to do with him or Nat.

There’s a moment of truly awkward silence during which all three of them just kind of stare at each other. Clint wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at Bucky, Bucky scowls like he’s hoping to incinerate Clint and stop him giving the game away, and Steve just seems lost by the entire exchange. 

Eventually, Clint shrugs, pulling his phone out of his pocket and grinning alarmingly at Bucky. “Okay. But I need a photo of you two by the sign before you go.”

Bucky makes a noise of exasperation. “Clint seriously? This better not be going on your Instagram.”

Clint snorts. “You can bet your ass it is. I want it to be _my_ photo on the evening news when you turn up at the side of the road murdered.”

“Clint!”

“What? It’d be great publicity.”

“I hate you so much…”

Steve clears his throat. “I’m uh… really not a serial killer, if that makes any difference.”

“None at all,” Clint and Bucky declare cheerfully at the same time.

Clint shuffles them over to the sign.

 _‘I’m so sorry about him,’_ Bucky mouths at Steve when Clint’s not looking.

Steve gives him an easy smile and shrugs like he doesn’t really mind. Or possibly like he agrees that Bucky’s friend having a photo of his would-be serial killer is genuinely a good idea.

They pose next to each other, stiff and awkward, and Clint snaps a couple of quick shots. He sends them to Bucky before tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Come on then, you’ll need your suitcase…”

It’s a weird feeling, watching Nat and Clint’s motorhome pull away down the road. Did Bucky really just do this? Agree to ride with a complete stranger, in a foreign country?

“So, Bucky huh?” Steve says, watching them go.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, holding his suitcase like he’s just fallen overboard and it’s the last life preserver. Please don’t let this have been a dumb decision…

“That your full name?” Steve asks.

“No, just a nickname,” Bucky says, finally turning to face him. “I’m James Buchanan Barnes if you really want to know, but I’ve never liked James, and Buchanan is far too long to be a first name.”

Steve smiles, bright and reassuring in a way that sets Bucky’s heart fluttering beneath his ribs. “Fair enough, it does seem like a bit of a mouthful.”

There’s a charming quality to him that Bucky can’t quite put his finger on. Unrefined, but in a good way, like he’s not afraid to show his rough edges. It makes Bucky wonder if that’s a New Zealand thing, or just a Steve thing.

“So… Steve, huh?” he asks, realising that whatever it is, he’s curious to know more.

Steve nods. “Steven Grant Rogers, if _you_ really want to know. But just Steve’s fine.”

He holds out his hand and Bucky shakes it.

“Nice to meet you properly, Steve.”

“Likewise.”

There’s a heartbeat’s pause when their fingers linger slightly too long. A split-second when the world around them stands still.

Then Steve shrugs it off, retrieving a set of keys from his pocket and announcing, “Well, I guess we should get going, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * There's a more detailed explanation of significance of Cape Reinga in Māori legend [here](https://www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/places-to-go/northland/places/te-paki-recreation-reserve/cape-reinga-te-rerenga-wairua/heritage/).
>   * The logo on Steve's shirt comes from a long-running campaign encouraging New Zealanders not to litter. It's basically "Kiwiana" now - stuff that's become a famous part of the local culture. You can see it [here](https://www.knzb.org.nz/).
>   * The idea of everyone knowing everyone else here isn't strictly true. But we do work on 2 degrees of separation rather than 6 like the rest of the world. It's generally pretty accurate.
>   * This is actually the first scene I wrote for this story. The one that inspired the other 130,000 odd words (just in case anyone's in doubt about how long this fic is going to be).
> 

> 
> Next update on Friday Jan 1st!


	4. I'm taking this car to Invercargill!

They stop beside a mid-nineties era Toyota Hilux pickup truck that’s all square angles and edges, with dents that suggest its seen more than its fair share of use. It’s rugged and unrefined in much the same way Steve is, with what looks suspiciously like part of a coat hanger for an aerial and chunky off-road tyres that seem outlandishly large compared to the rest of the vehicle. Even so, the truck itself is much smaller than what Bucky’s used to seeing back home.

“You drive a pickup?” he asks.

Steve looks at him a bit funny. “Pickup?” he asks, like he’s testing out the word in his mouth. Then, he brightens. “Oh yeah! A ute.”

“A… ute?” Bucky frowns.

Steve pats the roof of the vehicle fondly. “Yeah, ute. Short for utility vehicle. ‘Pickup’ makes it sound like we’re in an American movie or something…” He pulls back a tarp covering the truck bed. “Chuck me your suitcase?”

Handing it over, Bucky watches as Steve effortlessly lifts the heavy case into the back and secures it beneath the cover. Satisfied it’s safe, he wanders over to the vehicle’s front right door, ready to ride shotgun.

Steve follows soon after, viewing him with what can’t be mistaken for anything other than amusement. “You going to drive then?”

Confused, Bucky stares at him. “What?”

“Right-hand drive,” Steve says, pointing to the steering wheel just inside the door. 

It makes Bucky want to slap his forehead, just for the sheer obviousness of the mistake. He grimaces. “Oh. Of course it is…”

It’s not something he’s had to think about with the motorhome. Especially since—thanks to his pathological hate of driving—Clint and Nat have seen to it that he hasn’t been the one in control.

Traipsing around to the other door, he gets in and clips his seatbelt into place. With their respective positions agreed upon, Steve pulls out of the parking lot and back onto the— _thing—_ Bucky still refuses to call a highway. He’s a careful and methodical driver at least. Thank God Bucky didn’t jump in with a maniac. At least… not as far as he knows yet.

“So…” he says, watching Steve with interest. “If you live down south, what brings you all the way up north?”

A slight furrow forms between Steve’s eyebrows. “I needed a break,” he says eventually. “So I’m doing the Pork Pie Run.”

_The what-now?_

“You’re… delivering pies?” Bucky asks, confused.

Steve laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week.

“Buying pies?”

More laughter. As though Steve enjoys being deliberately obtuse.

Bucky scowls. “Okay, if this is some strange New Zealand thing, you’re going to have to explain it to me.”

Steve turns back to him, eyes sparkling. “It’s got nothing to do with pies.”

“Then why did you mention pies!”

“Because it’s the name of the event.”

Bucky’s incomprehension must be obvious, because Steve takes one look at his face and wisely elects to continue.

“So basically… the Pork Pie Run is a fundraising event that’s held every couple of years. Teams sign up to drive Mini Coopers from Kaitaia at the top of the North Island, to Invercargill at the bottom of the South Island. The money they raise gets donated to charity.”

It’s a succinct summary, but unfortunately, one that still completely fails to explain what Steve’s doing here in a pickup truck all by himself.

Bucky waves a hand in Steve’s direction, trying to corral his thoughts into some semblance of order. “So… I have questions.”

There’s a patiently amused quality to Steve’s expression which Bucky can’t help but like. “Figured you would. Fire away.”

Taking a deep breath, Bucky counts them off on his fingers. “How come you’re not driving a Mini? Where’s the rest of your team? And why is this event named after pies when they so obviously don’t play any part?”

Steve nods. “That’s fair. The event isn’t until April next year, I’m just up here to check out the roads we’ll be driving ahead of time. The other half of my team is in Gisborne, where he lives. And it’s named after a famous New Zealand movie called ‘Goodbye Pork Pie.’ Does that answer your questions?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Only the ones I’ve asked so far.”

That makes Steve laugh all over again.

Damn it looks good on him, though. The way he laughs with his whole body, holding nothing back. Long enough for Bucky to sneak a few more admiring glances at his well-muscled physique—the attractive smattering of blond fuzz across his strong forearms, those solid thighs like tree trunks in his shorts—before he has to force himself to look away. God, what he wouldn’t give to climb on top of Steve right now…

Fuck— _focus_.

“Is the movie about pies then?” Bucky asks, trying to sound anything other than what he truly is—desperately horny.

Steve snorts. “No, it’s about a couple of blokes driving a Mini Cooper called Pork Pie from Kaitaia to Invercargill to get the older bloke’s wife back.” He leans his head out the window, yelling to no one in particular, “I’m taking this bloody car to Invercargill!” then turning back to Bucky like that somehow explains everything.

Which obviously, it doesn’t.

Unimpressed, Bucky stares at him. “You do realise how weird this all makes your country sound, right?”

It’s exactly the sort of ill-advised comment he’s always been so good at blurting out before he can stop and think. Precisely the sort of thing that would have set Brock off. Internally, he cringes. _Way to go, Barnes_. Insult the guy who just picked you up…

Confoundingly, Steve just grins, shrugging like he’s not going to argue. “We are pretty weird,” he agrees. “But _you_ chose to come here.”

Wait… did he just sass Bucky right back?

An unfamiliar lightness creeps into Bucky’s chest. “If you’re trying to say I’m weird, you’re not being very subtle about it,” he jabs, watching Steve’s reaction closely.

A smile curls the edges of his lips. His beautiful blue eyes sparkle with humour. “I never said that.”

“You implied.”

“You presumed.”

They’re both grinning now, from ear to ear, and damn if Bucky couldn’t do this all day. His cheeks feel warm and he’s pretty sure it’s not just from the summer heat. Although it is pretty hot in here.

“Does your air conditioning not work or something?” he asks, levelling an accusatory stare at the air vents.

Steve makes a face. Something halfway between a grimace and embarrassment. “Oh yeah… sorry. It’s not so great anymore. Older car. I usually just roll down the windows instead.”

And just because Bucky can’t help himself and doesn’t know when to stop, even when it’s good for him, he can’t help but remark, “So, not only have you abducted me to possibly murder me on the side of the road, but you’re going to torture me before you do it.”

Steve’s lips twitch. “It’s not for long,” he says.

A few minutes later, as he turns off onto what looks like a rough dirt track in the middle of nowhere, that sentiment sounds decidedly less than reassuring. Bucky swallows. Surely any serial killer worth their trade would try at least a little bit harder to cover their tracks?

He watches the scenery rush past, only half-joking when he says, “This better not be the part where you kill me and dump my body.”

It’s a few seconds before he’s brave enough to chance a look at Steve.

Steve, who looks absolutely mortified, in the best possible way.

He points down the road with an expression like he might be genuinely concerned for the mental health of the crazy American in his vehicle. “It’s the access to the beach. You said you wanted to see the country. We’re going sandboarding.”

Bucky lets out the breath he’s been holding. “Oh… right.”

“Jesus!” Steve exclaims. “You don’t think I’m actually the type of guy who would offer you a ride just to murder you at the side of the road do you?”

“No?”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

Bucky laughs nervously. “Well… I don’t _know_ you.”

Steve pulls the truck to a stop at the side of the road and turns to him like a man on a mission, expression serious. “All right. Let’s get one thing very clear.”

A warm breeze drifts in through the window, carrying with it a deafening chorus of cicadas from the bushes nearby. Sitting in awkward silence, Bucky wonders if he’s managed to ruin his chances with Steve in near-record time.

“I’m not going to murder you,” Steve says. “You’re welcome to bail out of this arrangement at any time, no questions asked. I’m not in the business of abducting tourists and holding them against their will. If you want me to drop you back to your friends right now, just say the word. If you’re over this tomorrow, or the day after, same deal. You’re only here as long as you want to be.”

Okay so… not quite what Bucky expected. It’s old fashioned, but undeniably sweet too. As if the sheer, obvious horror Steve displayed at being considered a would-be murderer didn’t already convince Bucky he wasn’t secretly harbouring homicidal desires.

Ducking his head, he smiles. “Sure.”

“I’m serious,” Steve adds, as though he’s not sure that Bucky gets it. As if his aggressive sincerity could possibly be interpreted for anything other than what it is.

There’s no way Bucky can’t laugh. “Yeah I get that... _I promise_ ,” he adds when Steve looks less than convinced. “If I want out, I’ll tell you.”

“Good.”

“Like a BDSM safe word.”

Steve’s eyes widen. He chokes back something that roughly approximates a laugh—at least half humour and half disbelief anyway. The remaining tension between them dissipates instantly.

“Oh wow,” he says, chuckling, “That’s one way of putting it.”

Bucky laughs then, too.

“I can’t believe you actually said that,” Steve says, shoulders still shaking.

“I can’t believe I said it either…”

“I mean… who says that? To a guy they only met half an hour ago?”

“Me, I guess?”

There’s a warmth spreading through Bucky’s chest at Steve’s easy-going manner. How nothing Bucky says seems to bother him. It feels like a breath of fresh air. One that Bucky didn’t even realise he needed.

Granted—he’ll be the first person to admit there’s always something magical about that initial spark of attraction. The excitement of getting to know someone for the first time. Even so, it’s been a long time since he’s felt anything remotely close to this. Since before he met Brock, that’s for sure.

He lets himself relax again. “Did you really just stop the truck to tell me I could get out at any time?”

“Partly,” Steve says, turning his attention back to driving. “But I also had to stop to put it in four-wheel drive.” He points at the smaller of the two gear sticks in the centre console.

“What do we need four-wheel drive for?” Bucky asks.

Steve grins, and it makes Bucky’s stomach feel weak and fluttery all over again. God help him, Steve needs to stop doing that. Otherwise Bucky’s going to melt faster than Icarus flying too close to the sun.

“You’ll see,” Steve says, accelerating back onto the road.

Soon, the dirt track ends altogether, converging on a narrow sealed area that could hardly be called a car park, but is jam packed with motorhomes, cars and tourists all the same. To one side rises a line of enormous golden sand dunes. From the truck, Bucky can see a steady line of people struggling up them, bodyboards in hand. There’s a whoop as someone slides down one, sending sand spraying everywhere. It looks utterly terrifying.

“That’s sandboarding?” Bucky asks.

“Yup,” Steve says.

“We’re going to do _that_?”

“That’s the plan.”

Steve steers over to the very end of the paved surface, where it descends down a gentle slope and transitions into… a stream. An actual goddamn stream, meandering in shallow threads that criss-cross the sand. And a number of warning signs advising of a washout, which Steve entirely ignores as he drives right past. 

“I thought you said we were sandboarding?” Bucky says, voice edging into high-pitched as the truck bounces down into ankle-deep water. He grabs the plastic handle above his head, gripping it white knuckled.

“We are,” Steve says, calmly changing up gears like driving into a stream is just a regular, everyday occurrence.

Maybe it is in New Zealand. Bucky sure as hell wouldn’t know.

“Just not here with everyone else,” Steve explains, nodding in their direction of travel. “We’ll go a bit further down the river.”

“Don’t the signs say we can’t?”

Steve shrugs, negotiating the widening river bed as they pass another sign encouraging them to speed up because of soft sand. “That’s mostly to deter tourists. Too many idiots in campervans and rental cars getting stuck because they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Bucky holds on for dear life as they bounce around another curve. Water sluices past his window. He could almost swear Steve is aiming for the deepest sections possible. Like he’s having way too much fun with this. So much for careful and responsible…

“But let me guess… you know what you’re doing?” Bucky asks, scepticism inevitably bleeding into his tone.

Steve nods. “Yeah, I reckon so.”

“You _reckon_?”

“I’ve done a fair bit of four-wheel driving in this ute, in terrain a hell of lot rougher than this.” Steve pats the dash fondly. “A bit of shallow water and sand is nothing she can’t handle.”

“But what if we get stuck?” Bucky asks.

“We won’t.”

“What if the water gets too high?”

“It’s not going to, but…” Steve points to Bucky’s side of the truck, unconcerned. “If it does, that’s what the snorkel is for.”

Bucky looks out the window and sure enough, there is a black plastic snorkel protruding above the cab. He rolls his eyes. Great.

Glancing across at him, Steve chuckles. “Relax, New Yorker. She’ll be right.”

“She? Who is ‘she’?” Bucky says, throwing his hands in the air as they bounce over another bump.

The smile Steve turns on him could melt ice. Or like… launch a thousand ships. If Bucky had anything to do with it, anyway.

“It’s a saying. An idiom. It means everything will be fine, so don’t worry about it.”

They splash through another deep section and accelerate through the shallows, kicking up a rainbow-tinted spray on each side of the truck. Sunlight sparkles across the water’s surface. At the river’s edge more of those strange grasses grow, their pale feather-duster heads streaming in the breeze. They seem ubiquitous with the coastal landscape here, another gentle reminder—if Bucky needed it—that he’s anywhere but home.

“Easy for you to say,” he mutters, already anticipating how much Clint and Nat will laugh when he calls them to say he’s stuck in a stream with a mad New Zealander, barely half an hour out from Cape Reinga. No doubt it’ll be all over Instagram shortly afterward.

They don’t end up getting stuck though, or stranded in deep water. Instead, after a few minutes of uneventful driving, Steve slows and pulls to a stop in a damp patch of sand by the river’s edge.

“Right,” he declares. “This looks like a good spot.”

They get out—Bucky with his shoes still on and Steve in bare feet.

Steve looks down at Bucky’s fashionable footwear, expression bemused. “You ah… might want to take those off.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?

“They’ll just get full of sand. Where we’re going we don’t need shoes.”

Bucky rolls his eyes again, glancing to the stream beside them and muttering, “Or roads apparently...”

Steve just grins. The same irresistible grin Bucky is quickly learning to associate with his amusement.

“I’ve got news for you mate. This, and the beach we’re going to afterwards, _are_ roads.”

Bucky sends a withering look his direction. Bullshit. He’s just messing with a foreigner who knows no better, isn’t he?

“I mean it,” Steve insists, perfectly serious in the face of Bucky’s scepticism. “Ninety Mile Beach is an actual, official highway. Just in case the sealed one gets blocked or washed out.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Bucky blurts out.

Steve shakes his head. “Nope.”

Which is just… something else. Truly, Bucky has no idea what to make of this ridiculous country.

Rolling with it—mostly for a lack of better options—he slips off his shoes and places them in the back of the truck. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

They sandboard on pieces of flattened cardboard from the back of Steve’s ‘ute’ as he insists on calling it.

It’s hard work climbing the dunes—two steps forward, one step back for every movement—and Bucky falls down more than a few times. But the sand is surprisingly soft, fine grained, and easy enough to shake out of his clothes afterward.

He’s breathless and panting after only a few rounds, and the cardboard is looking battered and decidedly the worse for wear when Steve challenges him to go from the top of the tallest dune. After a hard climb, they race down it, Bucky’s heart pounding with exhilaration as the wind sweeps through his hair.

He collapses into the sand at the bottom, laughing and waving his arms up and down to make a sand angel. It scratches, but it sure beats the snow and cold of New York at this time of year.

Steve looks down at him, a funny little smile settling onto his unreasonably attractive lips. And God—what Bucky wouldn’t give to run his fingers through that beard…

“You good?” Steve asks, offering him a hand up. “Ready to see the rest of the beach?”

Cheeks flushing, even though he knows Steve can’t possibly read his thoughts, Bucky grips his hand firmly, rising to his feet. Trying not to focus on the lingering sensation of warmth in his palm, he dusts himself off.

“Sure.”

As though to prove his point about the beach being an official highway, Steve drives down it, sticking to the semi-firm sand between the high tide line and the water. After a while, he stops for Bucky to take a few photos and admire the view. Pulling out a cooler, he pours cold juice for them both. They sip it while sitting, backs to the dunes, watching the placid motion of the waves and the gulls wheeling overhead. There’s nothing much to say, but the silence is far from uncomfortable.

It has to be the first time Bucky’s truly stopped in a very long time. Without anyone breathing down his neck, or heaping expectations on him. And since Steve is enough of a distraction to keep him from delving too far into thoughts of home, the peace and quiet is actually nice for a change.

It doesn’t last long though. Just as Bucky’s starting to get settled, something tickles his forearm. He turns to find Steve holding one of the duster-like grass heads, teasing it along his arms and shoulders. His lips press together unevenly like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

Narrowing his eyes, Bucky feigns indifference. Waiting until the right second, when he can snatch the foliage from Steve’s hands and—

Leaping back to avoid Bucky’s wild swings, Steve laughs delightedly. Before Bucky knows what’s happening they’re both on their feet, Steve’s got another branch, and they’re trying to hit each other with them like boys in a schoolyard fight. Steve’s is longer, but he also turns out to be terribly ticklish. By aiming for the exposed skin of his neck, Bucky manages to make him squirm enough to fall into the soft sand with a surprised gasp. Victorious, he levels the grass sword at him.

Raising his hands, Steve laughs breathlessly. “I yield.”

Winning is nice, but it isn’t the only reason Bucky finds himself grinning. For one brief moment, he actually managed to forget about New York, losing his job, and Brock. All because Steve is ridiculous, attractive and a lot of fun.

He sneaks another look at Steve, only to find Steve gazing right back, lips slightly parted in an expression that makes Bucky feel hot all over. It's almost like it could be the start of something more, but instead, they both end up looking away. Anywhere but each other. 

Unfortunately, not long after, Bucky finds himself stifling a yawn. It’s pathetic. Only mid-afternoon and he’s already dreaming of bed. Understandable, he supposes, given the time-difference, but still pitiful. How is he supposed to make the best of travelling with Steve if he’s flat out asleep by six o’clock at night?

If Steve is thinking as much he doesn’t say it, not even when Bucky asks after their accommodation arrangements.

He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I uh… I didn’t really think that far ahead. I’m camping, but it’s a pretty small tent, umm… especially for two guys… and I only have one air bed, so…”

It makes Bucky feel weird to know Steve thought this whole thing through about as much as he did.

“We’ll get a motel,” Steve declares, pulling out a clunky old smartphone that has to be at least five years old and has definitely seen better days. “There’s got to be something in Kerikeri or Paihia, even at this time of year.” He taps the small screen like an old man, squinting at it.

Briefly, Bucky feels a sting of disappointment. Sharing a bed with Steve sounded like a pretty good idea, even if Bucky’s clearly still too jetlagged to do much with it. Nothing wrong with having dreams. But from Steve’s reaction, it almost seems like it’s not an idea he’s comfortable with. Which is kind of a mixed signal, given that it was him who picked up Bucky to begin with.

But New Zealanders are all so open and friendly… Bucky swallows. Maybe he’s got the wrong impression entirely. Maybe Steve isn’t interested in him at all. Nothing about his appearance or mannerisms screams gay after all…

“This place in Paihia looks good,” Steve declares. “It’s got a bedroom, a lounge with a second bed, a kitchenette…”

Bucky sighs. That doesn’t sound like nearly as much fun as he was hoping for.

They drive along the beach for another half hour, cruising at a comfortably sedate speed. Bucky sweeps his arm through the warm air outside the window, admiring the peacefulness of it all. The golden sand and water feels like it goes on forever, near enough to deserted they could almost pass for the only people here. The only people in the whole world maybe.

It’s a stark contrast to the beaches back home. Where, on a nice day like this, you have to arrive early to stake out just a few square feet of sand, then spend the rest of the day fighting to keep it. By comparison, Ninety Mile Beach looks like you could fit the entire beach-going population of New York on it and still have room to spare.

So it’s almost too soon when Steve steers them back to an actual sealed road and pulls to a stop, pushing the stick out of four-wheel drive.

Bucky sits up, blinking past the sleepiness in his eyes. “How far from here to… Pie-here? Paihia?” he asks, hoping he isn’t mangling the pronunciation too much.

He must be though, from the way Steve’s lips turn up with amusement. He reaches past Bucky to open the glove box and pulls out—to Bucky’s absolute horror—an honest-to-God paper road atlas of the variety Bucky hasn’t seen in a decade and a half, _at_ _least_.

“What?” Steve asks.

“What is that?” Bucky says, pointing at it like it’s the source of some virulent new disease. Luddism maybe.

Steve looks confused. “It’s a road map.”

“From what century?” Bucky asks, aghast. “Who even uses paper maps these days? I can’t believe I let you give me shit about not knowing my way around the country. You have a _smart_ phone.”

Steve looks down to where his old phone is settled in one of the cupholders. “Yeah but… it’s slow, and the GPS is pretty dodgy. Knowing where I am within a twenty kilometre radius doesn’t really help me. Plus if I’m somewhere without reception, I can’t exactly load a map, can I?”

Bucky stares at him like he’s speaking another language. “That’s what offline maps are for Steve.”

If anything, it only makes Steve look more confused. “There are offline maps?” he asks, like it’s a revelation.

Bucky only just manages to stop the facepalm he feels coming on.

Steve, for his part, flicks through the map book, studying the expanse of empty space where they’re presently located. “Best guess, it’s a couple of hours away? If we take the scenic route by the coast, which is State Highway One, then turning onto Ten at—Awanui? Then—”

Pulling out his phone, Bucky glances at Steve’s map for the correct spelling of their destination and inputs it into Google. “Two and a quarter hours,” he says, holding up the phone to show the whole route mapped out.

It’s a move that would’ve been guaranteed to annoy the hell out of Brock, but if Steve’s either impressed or irritated he doesn’t show it. In fact, he just smiles and pushes Bucky’s phone away. “Okay smartarse, have it your way. But I’d like to see you do that on the inland route from Haast.”

“Just so you know…. I have no idea where that is,” Bucky says.

Steve shakes his head, looking a lot like he’s debating whether to comment again on how little research Bucky did before arriving here. Bucky folds his arms, challenging him to do it. Instead, Steve laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that makes Bucky’s stomach feel decidedly unsteady.

He pulls back onto the road. “All right, you can be in charge of directions then.”

Bucky allows himself a flicker of smug satisfaction.

“So,” he says, watching the rolling hills fly past. “Got any music?”

In answer, Steve turns on the radio. He flicks quickly through frequencies, most of which produce either static, or what sounds suspiciously like talkback. Which Bucky is absolutely _not_ listening to, no matter what country he’s in. At that point, Steve flips open the lid of the storage space between the front seats. “I’ve got some tapes,” he offers.

Bucky stares at them. There are about two dozen. Some are actual studio albums, the cover art sun-faded over time. Others look like mix-tapes of the sort Bucky hasn’t seen since his middle school years. “You’re kidding me…” he gripes, levelling an accusatory glance at Steve. “Who even uses cassette tapes anymore!”

“Someone with an old car radio?” Steve suggests, looking mildly affronted. 

Bucky narrows his eyes. “How old are you?” he asks, suddenly doubting his ability to judge age. Especially when Steve’s using paper maps and cassette tapes like the twenty-first century never happened.

It’s not that Bucky objects if Steve _is_ older than he looks. Especially since he looks good enough to climb into bed with on the spot, if they happened to have one handy. But an age difference is the sort of thing he feels like he should probably be aware of, at the very least. 

“I’m thirty. Why? How old are you?” Steve asks, watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye like the answer matters, but also trying to look like he’s not looking. 

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m twenty-nine.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth ticks upward. Bucky tries to ignore the way it makes him feel a little pleased too, that they’re so close in age. Even if Steve’s grasp of technology is somewhat lacking…

He rifles through the tapes. Most of them are old, a couple of decades at least, and some even older than that. Older than Steve. Either he has a very old-fashioned taste in music, or they belong to somebody else. Selecting one at random, Bucky pulls it out. “Oh my God, Fleetwood Mac? Are you sure you’re only thirty?”

“Hey, that’s a great album!” Steve argues. “1988 greatest hits. A classic, just like me.”

He snatches the tape from Bucky and, one-handed, inserts it into the player with the kind of expertise no one their age should possess.

Bucky groans, rubbing a hand over his face as the first notes of music ring out. Why he did he have to hop into the car of someone who is so obviously a complete _ass_. “Next thing, you’ll be telling me you’re a sheep farmer,” he complains.

That sure as hell makes Steve freeze up. He casts an uncertain look Bucky’s way, clearing his throat nervously. “I uh… am a sheep farmer?”

For a few seconds, there’s deathly silence. Bucky stares at him in disbelief. Is it another joke? In the short time he’s known Steve, it’s clear he’s not above cracking jokes. But he’s also got a face he makes when he does, all cheerful and insincere. He’s not making it now.

Bucky groans. Then, he laughs. A touch hysterical probably. What else can he do?

“Of course you are…” he says, already imagining how hilarious Nat and Clint are going to find this when he deigns to share it with them. “How could I not have known?”

Steve shrugs as though to say that’s par for the course in New Zealand.

Sinking lower in his seat, Bucky closes his eyes. He drifts off moments later, barely a minute into the second song.

_You can go your own way…_

He wakes to Steve shaking his shoulder in the motel parking lot. They check in, briefly debating who should pay—with Steve insisting it be him, and Bucky arguing the opposite—before eventually agreeing to split the bill. The next discussion is over who’s going to sleep in the bedroom. Steve offers it to Bucky, and Bucky ends up accepting, mostly because he’s tired and it doesn’t seem worth arguing over.

He can’t help but feel a bit disappointed there’s no mention of them sharing it though.

By now, Bucky’s so tired he’s basically ready to fall into bed with no dinner. Steve still manages to talk him into going out, claiming it’ll help Bucky get into the time zone. He’s probably right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stay awake. Bucky’s eyelids feel like they’re literally imbued with lead.

They go to a small local bar just down the road from the motel. On the way in, Steve holds the door open for Bucky.

Stopping just short of it, Bucky frowns at his open, unassuming face. “I can do that myself, you know,” he says, a touch sharp. What is it with men thinking he needs help all the time?

Of course, Steve’s not Brock, so he just gives Bucky a look like Bucky’s the one behaving weirdly, then shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And with that, he lets the door swing shut in Bucky’s face.

Bucky gapes at it, feeling like a complete idiot. Of course… Steve was only trying to be polite, not patronising. Not everyone’s like Brock. Cursing his own stupidity, Bucky pushes the door open and follows Steve in to a table.

Initially, things don’t improve much from there.

While they review the menu, a waiter walks past carrying a couple of delicious, juicy looking burgers, complete with a small mountain of fries. They make Bucky’s mouth water, embodying a sudden unreasonable desire for greasy-spoon style comfort food.

“So… you like burgers?” Steve asks, following where Bucky’s looking. 

It’s not that he’s being impolite asking, or that the question is unreasonable. Just that something about it brings back memories Bucky would rather not recall, complete with the automatic defence mechanisms to go with them.

“Yes I like burgers,” he snaps forcefully. “What’s wrong with that?”

Steve looks taken aback, in a way that makes Bucky want to kick himself. Nodding slowly, he forces an awkward smile. Maybe worried Bucky might tear his head off again if he says anything else. 

Bucky’s chest clenches. Trust him to totally blow it. Before he even gets the chance to figure out what _it_ is. 

After a moment’s pause, Steve takes a deep breath. “There’s nothing wrong with a good burger,” he says quietly. “I mean… this is a pub. No one comes to a pub for a salad. Uh, unless you wanted salad of course. Because there’s nothing wrong with salad either, I just—"

It makes Bucky smile, easing the tension out of his shoulders. “I don’t want a salad, Steve.”

Steve looks relieved. Like normality has been restored to the world. “Oh… cool,” he says.

There’s an unmistakeable mushy feeling gathering in the pit of Bucky’s stomach. He takes a sip of his drink to give himself something to do that isn’t just looking at its cause. 

“Do you want to get ice cream after this?” Steve asks, clearly still cautious. “There’s a place just round the corner and we could sit by the ocean while we eat it…”

And fuck—if Bucky couldn’t just kiss him for that. A man who approves of eating burgers and fries, and wants to go for ice cream afterward? Eat your heart out, Brock, you asshole.

“I _love_ ice cream,” he says, a little too enthusiastically.

Steve ducks his head, hiding a very obvious smile. “Cool.”

There’s no cookie dough flavour, which is disappointing, but Steve does recommend something called ‘Hokey Pokey.’ It turns out to be kind of like vanilla, but with tiny balls of honeycomb in it. It’s not as nice as cookie dough, but it’s not bad either. Unfortunately, by the end of his cone, Bucky’s yawning again, trying and mostly failing to keep his eyes open.

Back at the motel he brushes his teeth and heads to bed for the night. He had hoped for some sign of interest from Steve, but realistically, no matter how hot he is, Bucky’s not sure he could stay awake long enough to do anything about it. It’s definitely one of those tomorrow kind of problems.

Pulling the covers up around himself, he checks his phone.

> Clint: So has he murdered you yet?
> 
> Bucky: No. He told me I could leave whenever I want.
> 
> Clint: Okay, more importantly then, have you scored yet?

Bucky snorts. He types a response, deletes it, types a second, then deletes that in favour of a third.

_I don’t know if I’m his type. He might be straight. He doesn’t seem like that kind of guy._

In the end he settles for something simpler.

> Bucky: Like I’d tell you. 

He swears he can hear Clint’s laughter from bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * So begins the part of this story where I mention a bunch of places, about 95% of which actually exist (the other 5% are generic campgrounds/beaches etc), but I don't always mention the place names if it's not important to the plot. For example - the sand dunes in this chapter are called the Te Paki Sand Dunes. So basically, if you're curious about any of the locations mentioned, feel free to ask! Chances are even if I didn't have a specific place in mind, there was a generic area I was thinking of.
>   * Ninety Mile Beach is not, in fact, 90 miles. It's 88km (55 miles). No one is completely sure where the misnomer came from.
>   * Hokey Pokey is the second most popular flavour of ice cream in New Zealand.
>   * As you may now have figured out, the title of this story comes from the Fleetwood Mac song "Go Your Own Way." Their 1988 Greatest Hits album had different track listings in different countries. Of future relevance is the song "Seven Wonders," which was included on the UK/Aus/NZ version but not the US one (as listed on Wikipedia [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greatest_Hits_\(1988_Fleetwood_Mac_album\)#European_and_Australian_releases/)). That album has largely been my soundtrack for writing this story, inspired by memories of summer holidays past. It will come up again later for plot reasons :)
> 

> 
> Happy New Year everyone!


	5. It's not Kidnapping if it's Voluntary

Being around Steve is just… easy. He doesn’t have any airs or graces or expectations. He’s not asking Bucky to put on a nice suit and shave to look presentable. He laughs freely and often. Questions without judgement.

With Steve, time flies.

They visit a place called Waitangi, which—the way Steve explains it—is kind of like the birth place of the country. Something about a treaty that’s important in a similar way as the Declaration of Independence is to the United States. Bucky doesn’t get most of it, but there’s a nice view of the ocean, some interesting Māori carvings, and an enormous traditional canoe.

“Waka,” Steve corrects for about the fifth time, slowing down his pronunciation so Bucky can follow.

“Waa-car,” Bucky repeats, quickly devolving into laughter when the look on Steve’s face says he’s got it wrong again. 

Steve makes a show of shaking his head and drags an aggrieved hand over his face. He’s still smiling though, so Bucky knows he doesn’t really mean it. “Close enough…”

They drive southwest from Paihia to the West Coast, to a stand of ancient forest with probably the second biggest tree Bucky’s seen in his life. The trunk is so large it would take a dozen people holding hands just to encircle it. Sparse, chaotic branches tower over the rest of the canopy, looking for all the world like an Ent that’s settled in for a long sleep. The giant sequoias of California would be larger and taller, but—surrounded by forest that’s overgrown, and rich with ferns and birdsong Bucky doesn’t recognise—this is an impressive sight, too.

Steve makes him stick to the raised wooden track like glue, forcing him to clean and disinfect his shoes before they enter and leave. There’s even a conveniently located cleaning station equipped for that purpose.

“Is this some weird New Zealand thing?” Bucky asks, frowning as he contorts to inspect the bottom of his shoe. “Because in the States, when we go hiking, we don’t normally mind our shoes getting dirty. That’s kind of the point.”

Raking his foot against a bristled scrubbing pad, Steve laughs. “Normally I’d agree with you, but in this case, it’s actually to try and stop a new disease that’s killing Kauri trees. They’re native, so like most things here, they’re endangered. Our Department of Conservation is doing its best to protect them, and cleaning our shoes helps.”

“Oh…”

In that context it makes a certain kind of sense, Bucky supposes. Settles it too though. As far as he’s concerned, New Zealanders are definitely some kind of kindred spirits to the Ents. Tree-herders, all of them.

They spend that night in Whangārei, another small town by the coast which Steve calls a city. Bucky wouldn’t give it that much credit, but he gets the feeling anything bigger than a scattered collection of buildings in this country is pretty much called a ‘city.’

Regardless, it’s got a nice harbourside business district with at least two dozen yachts—including some fairly expensive-looking ones—moored at berths only feet from the shops. He and Steve walk alongside them, their amicable chatter only just managing to keep Bucky from yawning. His acclimation to the time zone is starting to improve, but still not enough to stop him from being in bed, fast asleep, before it even gets dark.

Jet-lag’s a real mood-killer.

Besides, Steve is also the perfect gentleman, friendly without ever being overbearing—to the point that Bucky wonders if maybe he’s misread the signals and Steve really is straight. But then there’s the delightful way he flushes pink down at the beach the next morning when Bucky pulls his shirt off, exposing the hard-won proceeds of his time at the gym. It’s like Steve doesn’t want to be caught looking, but he can’t not look either, and it gives Bucky a warm, smug feeling. Like his gym membership and all those early mornings were totally worth it.

“You’ll uh… need to put some sunscreen on,” Steve says, swallowing roughly and pulling a bottle of the stuff out of his bag.

Bucky shrugs. “No thanks. I don’t mind a tan.”

Steve is frustratingly persistent though. He gestures airily at the sky. “There’s a big hole in the ozone layer round this part of the world. If you don’t use sunscreen, you’ll burn. Trust me. I’ve had some experience.”

Looking at Steve’s pale skin, Bucky can imagine. He looks like he’d burn in the middle of winter. In Canada. With his clothes on.

An alternative idea begins to take shape in his mind. Grinning devilishly, he points to his exposed back. “I guess you’d better do the places I can’t reach, then.”

There’s no good way to describe what Steve’s face does next. He licks his lips—eager or apprehensive, it’s impossible to tell which—then swallows again. For a second, Bucky even thinks he might find an excuse not to do it. But in the end, his sense of responsibility must overcome any misgivings because he nods, instructing simply, “Okay, turn around.”

The day is only mild, high sixties maybe, but they’re both sweaty already from the walk down to the shore. The oily sunscreen slicks an additional filmy layer onto Bucky’s back, and Jesus—no matter how sun-proof he might now be, it’s sure as hell not going to save him from burning up. Not with Steve massaging delightfully gentle, sensual circles into his skin.

Bucky’s in danger of spontaneously combusting on the spot.

But if Steve is self-conscious about touching another guy, he’s doing a pretty good job of not showing it, lingering all along Bucky’s shoulders and the small of his back in a way that nearly has Bucky moaning out loud. He bites his lip, holding it back. Even so, once or twice he can’t help rolling his shoulder blades into Steve’s touch, which causes Steve to go over those spots again and—

 _Jesusfuckingchris_ t—Bucky wants him so bad. He bets the sex would be amazing.

But far too quickly, it’s over, and Bucky has to apply the rest himself. And since Steve doesn’t take his shirt off, that’s that.

The near-deserted spot they’re in is beautiful though. Another white sand beach overhung by silver-green trees heavy with red blossoms. Pristine clear water laps the shore in sedate ankle-high waves. It’s the kind of place Bucky could just let his mind wander and forget the world.

He stretches out, lying on his back beneath the shade of the nearest tree.

Steve sits beside him. He still smells vaguely like sunscreen, although it’s indistinct, mostly masked beneath the rich pollen-scented air. The grass underneath Bucky’s back is cool and spongy, and he slides his legs far enough down the slope to curl his toes into dry sand.

“What’s this tree called?” he asks, staring up at the insects buzzing around its curiously fuzzy flowers.

It’s as though a thousand crimson, gold-tipped filaments combined to form an on-land anemone, then draped themselves over an entire tree.

Steve glances up. “It’s a pōhutukawa. We call it the New Zealand Christmas tree. For obvious reasons.”

“People don’t put them in their homes do they?”

That earns Bucky an odd look. As though Steve’s debating whether everyone in New York lives in houses large enough to fit trees like this inside. Eventually, he seems to decide the better of it. “No. They just grow along the coastline and flower in December.”

“Oh.”

“They’re a North Island thing mostly,” he adds. “I never grew up with them around. It wasn’t until I lived in Auckland that I got used to seeing them. Now, I kind of like them.

He sweeps his long fingers over a particularly low-hanging flower, acquiring a light dusting of gold across the tips.

Bucky watches dreamily, wishing Steve would touch him like that. “You lived in Auckland?”

“For university,” Steve says.

“What did you study?”

A small smile curls the edges of Steve’s mouth. He brushes pollen off onto his shorts. “Art.”

Huh. Not what Bucky expected. Not that he doesn’t believe Steve, but he just comes across as more of a practical kind of guy, especially given his farming background. It’s hard to imagine him in a classroom somewhere, painting bowls of fruit or sketching nudes.

“What type of art did you do?” Bucky asks, curious.

“Painting mostly, and some sketching,” Steve says.

“Do you still do it?”

Steve acquires a thoughtful look. “Sometimes. I did bring a sketchbook with me on this trip just in case.”

So… an artistic farmer. Who’d have thought.

“What’s your favourite thing to draw?” Bucky asks, tucking his hands behind his head and admiring the generous curve of Steve’s biceps. The way the sunlight illuminates his pretty eyelashes, framing them in gold.

Steve hums thoughtfully. “I like sketching people. But when it comes to paint, I prefer landscapes. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve painted the mountains back home. There’s just always something different about them, you know?”

Bucky doesn’t know, but he nods anyway, fighting off the allure of multiple fantasies that all seem to be taking on a general _‘draw me like one of your French girls, Steve’_ theme. One in which Bucky uses his best bedroom eyes to distract Steve, lure him down onto a soft velvet couch and—

“What do you do?” Steve asks, oblivious. “Who is Bucky Barnes when he’s not on holiday?”

It’s probably unhealthy how much Bucky likes hearing his name spoken in Steve’s rich, deep voice. But the memories he’s asking about are also still raw. Like a fresh graze submerged in salt water.

“I um… was in marketing. But I’m actually between jobs right now,” Bucky admits, bracing himself for the judgement that’s sure to follow.

But Steve doesn’t seem aware that’s supposed to be a problem. He just nods, smiling again and remarking cheerfully, “Great time of year to take a break.”

As though being unemployed and running halfway across the world to escape your issues is just par for the course. Something anyone might do.

Funny thing is… it does make Bucky feel a bit better. Or at least, like his life choices aren’t as terrible as he thought. “Yeah. I guess you could say that,” he says, giving Steve a generous smile.

Maybe that’s just what it takes—coming halfway around the world to lie in the warmth of a foreign shore, beneath the shade of a _pō-hu-tu-ka-wa_ tree with an unfairly attractive foreigner—to finally put some distance between Bucky, Brock, Pierce, and his parents’ expectations. 

Maybe, Bucky could even be okay with that. Maybe.

The good weather continues into the next day, warm and sunny without ever crossing the threshold into what Bucky would deem hot. It is humid though, the air thick with the promise of something not entirely unlike a sweltering New York summer. The days are long, twilight lingering late into the evening, and everywhere they go feels like it’s never more than a few minutes from some ridiculously picturesque beach.

The whole of the ‘Far North’ as Steve calls it, is one glittering jewel of secluded white sand beaches, rocky coves, rolling hills, and native forest. Throughout it appear regular flashes of pōhutukawa-red, clinging precariously to rocky cliffs, and sprouting in every backyard and local reserve.

Bucky sends a few photos to Becca just to keep her happy—though tactfully not mentioning Steve—and keeps up with Clint and Nat’s progress via Instagram. They look like they’re having a great time visiting all the usual tourist spots, but Bucky doesn’t regret taking a break from it. Something tells him if he bothered to input ‘#NewZealand’ into an Instagram search, he’d find a hundred other photos just like theirs.

Maybe there is something to be said for the road less travelled…

Even so, he can never seem to find the right moment to try and progress things with Steve. There’s something about their interactions that reminds Bucky of playing one of those arcade claw-lift games. How, just when it looks like you’re on the home stretch, about to bag whatever cheap toy the claw has captured, it always seems to lose its grip and force you to start all over again. It’s confusing, to say the least.

He pushes it to the back of his mind, trying to enjoy the moment instead.

That evening, they drive out to yet another empty stretch of coastline, stopping along the way to pick up dinner from a dodgy looking shop that wraps up their food in old newspaper.

Bucky eyes it with considerable scepticism.

“Fish and chips,” Steve explains.

Or more accurately, ‘fush and chups,’ as it comes out sounding to Bucky’s ear.

“I figure you’ve got to have some at least once while you’re here,” Steve says, spreading an old picnic blanket over the grass and breaking open the newspaper. A delicious aroma rises from within it—crisp golden fries and beer-battered fillets. “This is how they’re traditionally eaten of course,” he says, peeling the top off a small can and cleverly upending ketchup all over one side of the newspaper to stop it flapping in the wind. “On a beach somewhere, with far too much tomato sauce.”

Disregarding Steve’s weird understanding of the concept of ‘tomato sauce,’—which for Bucky belongs firmly on pizzas and in Italian restaurants—there is a lot to recommend this. The view over the water is nice, the fries are a perfect mix of crunchy and salty, and the fish flakes apart effortlessly in Bucky’s mouth. Before long, he’s even making the last of it disappear, sucking the oil greedily off his fingers and trying to imagine Brock ever taking part in anything so uncultured. Only at gunpoint probably. And even then he’d still be complaining about the carb-loading involved.

Steve doesn’t look like he could care less about calories. “I keep meaning to ask,” he says, looking like a whole damn dessert that Bucky could eat. Screw him and his too-small shirts. “Why New Zealand?”

Bucky pauses. He could lie, but what would be the point? If the last two days have proven anything, it’s that Steve won’t judge him if he tells the truth.

He smiles wryly. “Would you believe me if I said I got drunk with Clint and Nat while watching Lord of the Rings, and when we woke up, we’d booked tickets?”

Steve lets out a delighted chuckle. “Really?”

“Really.”

“You must be a big fan of Lord of the Rings to do that.”

Bucky makes a noise of disbelief. “Are you kidding!? My teenage years, all I ever wanted to be was a rider of Rohan. I even took fencing classes for a year after the second movie came out because my parents got sick of me running round the house with a plastic sword, breaking things.”

Steve’s expression looks beyond amused. Gorgeous creases appear at the corners of his eyes, sending Bucky’s heart into overdrive.

“Don’t laugh!” Bucky objects.

Steve laughs even harder.

“I’m not!” he tries to claim, hiding a stupidly broad smile behind one hand.

“Oh? How do you explain what your face is doing right now then, huh?” Bucky demands, pointing at it.

“Let me explain!”

“Yeah? I’m listening…”

Eventually, Steve manages to still his shaking shoulders long enough to answer. “I’m a fan too. I was even an extra, in the second movie.”

Bucky feels his eyebrows shoot up. “Now you’re just messing with me.”

“I promise I’m not,” Steve insists, serious as anything. “They did a lot of filming in the South Island, so when they put a call out for extras, Mum let me apply. I ended up being cast as one of the citizens of Rohan. I’m in the movie for about one second I think. In the background.”

Bucky stares at him in disbelief. He’s completely serious. Unbelievable... Every second person in this country really was involved with the movies somehow.

“I’m so jealous…” he whines.

Further down the beach, a couple throw a driftwood stick for a dog. It splashes into the waves and the dog bounds after it, barking excitedly.

Steve grins. “It’s actually what made me want to be an artist. After the filming, all I talked about was working for the special effects company who did the movies, Weta Workshop. I wanted to design sets or characters or something. Obviously though, by the time I was old enough to be at uni, the movies were well and truly over.”

“Okay. If you’re such a big fan, who’s your favourite character?” Bucky demands.

Steve thinks for a moment. “I guess… maybe Faramir? I always felt like he was underrated just because he was quiet and loyal and principled, but never in the spotlight like the others. He didn’t need to be the centre of attention to do the right thing. I like that.”

Bucky’s hearts skips an entirely unwarranted beat. “Hmm,” he says, trying to look thoughtful and not like he’s imagining pulling Steve down onto the blanket and propositioning him with sex at this very second. Even though he is. Vividly.

“What about you?” Steve prompts, unaware of Bucky’s struggle on his account.

“Éowyn,” Bucky says without hesitation. “She was brave and strong and never gave up, even when people underestimated her. I always wanted to be like that…”

“Huh,” Steve remarks, looking entirely too thoughtful.

A few moments of quiet pass, giving Bucky more than ample time to wonder if Steve’s mind has gone to the same place his has. That their respective favourite characters also happen to be on-screen love interests…

Then the couple with the dog walk by. They wave. “Hey.”

Steve wakes from his reverie. “Hey,” he says, waving back.

The dog runs past too, stick in tow, trailing its humans up the beach.

Bucky frowns. “Do you know them?” he asks, looking in the direction they’re walking, to where the beach ends in a small rocky headland. 

“No,” Steve says, sounding equally nonplussed.

“Why’d you say hi then?”

“Because it’s polite?”

Bucky shakes his head. He’s never understood that kind of sentiment. Polite has always meant having the manners to leave people you don’t know alone.

Without warning, a gust of wind lifts the newspaper sitting between them and they both grab for it, catching it by its corners before it can blow away. In the process, Steve’s fingers brush briefly across the back of Bucky’s hand. Skin tingling with electricity, Bucky shivers.

Cheeks reddening, Steve snatches his hand away, single-mindedly crushing the paper into an extra-tight ball and clearing his throat. “So I guess you’ll be wanting to visit some of the movie filming locations?”

“I was planning to,” Bucky says quietly, still distracted by the lingering warmth on his skin.

“Well, make sure you don’t miss Mount Sunday in Canterbury,” Steve says, all business again. “It was Edoras in the movies. It’s pretty neat.”

“Thanks…” Bucky says half-heartedly. “I’ll make sure I go there.”

Like it or not, their time together passes far too quickly. Before Bucky even knows it, his little side-excursion with Steve is coming to an end.

“All right,” Steve says, keeping his eyes on the road like the responsible and careful driver Bucky now knows him to be. “Those guys at baseball games in American movies. The ones selling peanuts and beer and hot dogs. Are they actually real? I mean… I’ve always been told they are, but it just seems weird, you know? Why don’t people get up and buy food from the shops at half-time?”

Bucky lifts his head off the window, giving Steve the _look_. The slightly disbelieving one that’s become so familiar to both of them over the past few days.

“For starters, there’s no half-time in baseball. Only innings,” he explains. “Secondly, why would anyone want to get out of their seat and fight thousands of other people just for one beer? Far easier to buy it from someone walking around selling it.”

“Huh,” Steve murmurs. “Innings. Like cricket…”

Somehow, Bucky thinks he might be missing the point. Still, the fact Steve’s interested at all is kind of endearing.

The narrow road they’ve been following for the last three days broadens into a three-lane highway as it approaches Auckland, meandering out of the hills and to within sight of the coast. Several dark green islands sit offshore, the largest of them spread oddly flat, like a dollop of melting ice cream on a sidewalk.

The city unfolds before them, with several other eye-catching green hills rising out of its sprawling suburbs. In the distance, a small cluster of skyscrapers stands poised by the water’s edge, attempting a pale imitation of Manhattan. Amongst them is the weird grey… _thing_ … Bucky thought he saw on his first drive through here a few days ago.

“What _is_ that thing?” he asks, pointing at it.

For a moment, Steve looks confused. Then he figures out what Bucky means. He rolls his eyes. “Oh, that’s just the Sky Tower. It’s basically a novelty viewing platform. They charge unsuspecting tourists far too much to go up there.”

Kind of like the Empire State Building then. Or the Freedom Tower. Bucky tries not to make a face at the thought. “Ah. That’s where Clint and Nat said they’d meet me.”

“Right…” Steve nods. He looks like he might be about to say something else, possibly about tourists and selfies. But after another brief glance at Bucky, he presses his lips together like he’s thought the better of it, eyes returning to the highway ahead.

It pretty much sums up how Bucky’s feeling. Like this whole “tiki tour”—as Steve keeps calling it—is coming to a premature end, before they’ve even scratched the surface of what could have been. But for a guy who went out of his way to charm Bucky into his vehicle, Steve either moves at glacial pace, or Bucky’s got to face up to the fact he’s misread the situation entirely, and Steve’s just not into men. 

He turns to find Steve’s mesmerising blue eyes on him again. But as soon as Steve sees Bucky looking, he glances away, cheeks flushing pink. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he swallows visibly. An old-school guitar track plays quietly on the cassette player. 

Bucky frowns. This whole situation is just… confusing. Usually he can tell when a guy’s interested, and he thought Steve was. Still does, when he acts like this. But three days is more than enough time if he actually wanted anything to happen between them.

Feigning turning his attention back to the view, Bucky sweeps a hand through his messy hair, checking to see if Steve looks.

He does.

Which leaves them back at—somewhere confusing. It’s like they’re stuck in a weird twilight zone of mutual attraction, somewhere between totally platonic friends and really hot one-off sex, and Bucky has no idea how to progress things any further. Not without coming off as way too forward and crass. Maybe being gay is just different here? And Steve’s not getting the message? In which case, if only Bucky had more time, he’s pretty sure he could figure it out.

But Clint and Nat need him back for more Instagram—whatever, and Steve needs to keep going with his own trip. It’s not fair of Bucky to delay him any longer.

They pull to a stop in the central city, just across the road from the Sky Tower in a place that’s probably highly illegal, judging by all the yellow lines. Steve lifts Bucky’s suitcase out of the vehicle and holds it, looking a little lost for words.

Bucky can relate. He clears his throat. “So um… thanks, for the last few days. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know the… country.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees quickly. “I’ve really enjoyed showing you around. I hope you’ve had a good time...”

“I have.”

They stand awkwardly, mostly looking down at the sidewalk, or up at the buildings, or generally anywhere but each other.

“So…” Steve begins suddenly, a newfound determination to his features. “I know you’re travelling with your friends, but I just want to say that if you ever do need a ride further south, you’re always welcome to jump in with me…”

The offer catches Bucky by surprise. “I… it’s nice of you to offer,” he stammers. “But I probably should get back to Nat and Clint.”

“Of course…”

“Thanks though.”

“No worries.”

Steve offers him his suitcase and Bucky takes it, wedging one foot beneath the wheels so it doesn’t roll downhill. Their fingers brush again and Bucky swallows. His heart feels like it’s pounding a million miles an hour. He wants what Steve’s offering… he really does. But it seems too late to duck out on the plans he already has. And for what, if Steve’s not interested? 

Steve walks back to the driver’s side of the ute and pauses. Then, squaring his shoulders, he marches quickly back to Bucky and envelops him in a warm hug.

It’s fucking _amazing_.

Bucky’s brain comes to a screeching halt. All too late, he wraps one arm stiffly around Steve’s waist, patting him on the back, uncertain if this is supposed to be a platonic gesture or something more. Because shit— it’s definitely giving him some very non-platonic ideas.

Luckily, Steve pulls away before he gets the chance to realise as much. “Don’t forget Mount Sunday,” he instructs with an awkward smile, hands still resting on Bucky’s shoulders.

Yeah, sure…” Bucky mumbles, stunned into near-silence. “Mount Sunday. I’ll definitely go.”

As though reassured he won’t miss out on the best movie scenery the country has to offer, Steve lets go. With an almost imperceptible sigh, he returns to the driver’s side of the ute.

For his part Bucky feels warm, content and horribly, horribly confused. He’s pretty sure he’s still holding his suitcase, but it could also have rolled downhill ten seconds ago for all that he’d notice right now.

With one final lingering look, Steve gives him a small wave. “Ka kite, then.”

The ute door closes and Bucky swallows as it pulls out into traffic. The hard plastic handle of his suitcase feels clammy against his fingers.

 _This is a mistake._ He’s not ready for this road trip to end yet…

At the end of the street, the lights turn red and the ute stops, stuck in a queue of other vehicles. It’s not so far ahead yet that Bucky couldn’t catch up if he wanted to…

_Oh God—_

He’s going to be one of those people, isn’t he? The awful ones who cause a big scene in public, just like in all the movies…

If there’s one universal truth in the world, it’s that no matter what city you’re in, people are always going to stare at you if you run down a street at full speed, dragging an enormous suitcase behind you, only to bang on the windows of a vehicle stopped at traffic lights.

Steve’s eyes widen, but he leans across to wind down the passenger window all the same. “Bucky… did you forget something?”

Bucky breathes heavily, angling his head in through the window. He’s only going to get one shot at this. Better not fuck it up.

“I’m still not convinced about your weird-ass country but I think I’d like to come with you to see more of it,” he blurts out, all in one breath.

_Ok. That could’ve gone better._

The traffic signal goes green and the cars ahead start to move. Steve glances briefly at them, then back to Bucky. He smiles, stretching over to unlatch the door. “I guess you’d better get in then.”

It’s not easy fitting his suitcase as well as himself in the front seat, but somehow, Bucky manages it. Even if he is disgustingly hot and sticky beneath its weight. 

An enormous Santa sculpture, several stories high, perches on the side of a building across the intersection from them, reminding Bucky there’s only one month to go until Christmas. A fact that’s easy enough to overlook with the weather as warm as it is. Everything here is ass about face—the wrong season entirely.

As Steve turns the corner onto the main thoroughfare, a comfortingly familiar green and white logo appears in view.

“Oh my God,” Bucky moans, staring at it as they drive past, “That’s the first Starbucks I’ve seen since arriving here. Can we please pull over and go?”

Steve’s mouth twitches. He eyes Bucky with the look of a man who knows he’s just been given at least a half hour diversion by someone who isn’t even supposed to be in his car anymore.

Bucky knows he’s probably pushing his luck. Brock would definitely have had something to say about it. More than just something, most likely.

Steve however, chuckles. He signals right at the next lights, looking like he’s just heard the punch line to a great joke.

“You,” he announces, looking over Bucky with a fond expression that has Bucky’s stomach doing dizzy flips, “are an absolute disaster, you know that? The parking alone is going to cost more than the drinks.”

_Well… shit._

“We don’t have to…” Bucky offers, feeling horribly awkward.

Lightly, Steve touches his arm, burning it up like someone’s lit a fire inside Bucky’s bones. “Nah, don’t worry about it. We’ll get you your dose of globalisation. Diabetes in a cup.”

It totally ruins the moment.

Bucky gives him a flat look. “Did I say I wanted to travel the country with you? Because I’m pretty sure that was a mistake.”

Eyebrows rising, Steve looks smug. “Uh huh. Sure looked it when you ran down the street asking to get back in.”

“Did I? I don’t recall...”

In the end, Steve’s estimation proves right. It is roughly half an hour before they’re on the road again, and the parking does cost more than the drinks.

And not that Bucky particularly wanted a pumpkin spice latte—since it feels like he’s sweating buckets having just run down the street in the hot sun—but it’s disappointing to learn that seasonal pumpkin spiced beverages are just not a popular thing in New Zealand, even at Starbucks. So much so, they’ve already stopped selling them.

“But… it’s the best part of Thanksgiving!” he complains to Steve. “How can they _not_?”

Steve stares at him blankly for a moment before remarking, “I never did understand what the big deal with that holiday is. Don’t people just trample each other at the shops or something?”

And like… Bucky isn’t an idiot. He’s always known Thanksgiving is an American holiday not celebrated in most other countries. But knowing it and experiencing it are two very different things, as it turns out. To simplify the entire occasion down to Black Friday sales is, debatably, to leave out the most important parts. And that’s before you factor in that there’s not so much as a single store-window advertisement around here to acknowledge how any sort of important annual holiday has just been and gone…

Talk about not being in Kansas anymore.

But then again, if Bucky had wanted to be in Kansas, that’s where he would’ve booked flights to. Instead, he’s halfway across the world, preparing to celebrate Christmas during summer.

“Yeah so… there is actually a lot more to it than that,” he says, unable to help himself. 

“Well,” Steve offers diplomatically, “Maybe you can tell me about it in the car.”

They end up getting iced drinks, which suits the hot weather better anyway. Then, with the ute windows rolled down, they pull out of the central city and onto the busy road into the suburbs. The area is modest and unpretentious—a curious mix of tiny old villas and modern townhouses, with most of the older houses featuring generous gardens full of subtropical greenery. Bucky’s even sure he sees a banana tree in one. It all feels very normal. Like a window into everyday life here, and someplace tourists wouldn’t usually bother to see.

Then Steve inserts a new tape into the cassette player, and Bucky groans as the sound of yet more decades-old music rings out. 

“You really don’t have anything from this century, do you?” he accuses.

Steve shoots him a cheerful grin, “Pretty much, nope.”

Bucky makes a face. “So where are we going anyway?”

“Well, there’s one place I want to visit before we leave the city.”

“We’re not staying?”

Steve gives an unapologetic shrug. “It’s Auckland. The real country is south of the Bombay Hills. I mean… unless there’s anything you really want to see here?”

Bucky thinks for a second. He feels like this is one of those questions he should probably have an answer for. If he’d actually bothered to do any research before he got on the plane…

Making a face he hopes communicates his indifference more than terrible forward-planning, he concedes, “Not that I know of.”

Steve smiles. “Great.”

Bucky takes another sip of his drink. “So what’s this place we’re going to see?”

Steve points at the radio. “Do you know this song?”

There is something familiar about it, but Bucky’s never been much of a connoisseur of music from before his time. “U2?” he asks, uncertain.

There’s at least equal parts amusement and disappointment on Steve’s face. “At least you know the band I suppose. The song is ‘One Tree Hill.’ It’s always been popular here.”

Somehow, Bucky manages not to roll his eyes at that. “Uh… great? What does that have to do with anything?”

“One Tree Hill,” Steve repeats, indicating the radio. “One Tree Hill,” he says, pointing to a large green hill topped with a stone obelisk, rising rapidly from the neighbourhood in front of them. “Bet you didn’t know this song was named after it.”

He looks so proud, it’s hard not to smile.

It’s Bucky’s first introduction to the curious fixation New Zealanders have with the rest of the world actually acknowledging they exist. Basically, any global mention is a novelty—roughly equivalent to a personal shout-out from the headlining band at a major rock concert, and treated with about the same excitement by the local population.

“Honestly Steve? I didn’t even know the name of the song until two seconds ago,” Bucky says. “Not everyone is an old person at heart like you.”

The noise Steve makes suggests he thinks there’s no helping some people. Bucky, presumably.

For his part, Bucky looks back to the hill. It’s similar to another one they passed on the way here. Just one of many that puncture Auckland’s skyline with welcome splashes of green. The closer they get, the easier it is to make out the many trees dotting its terraced slopes too.

“How come it’s called One Tree Hill when there are actually lots of trees?” Bucky asks, frowning.

Steve smiles. He pulls into an entranceway flanked by lichen-covered stone walls, and parks near an odd building that—from the domed roof—looks like it might house an observatory. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way up.”

It’s a good half hour climb to the summit, along what Bucky determines can’t be called a path. More like a goat track, winding its way up the hill’s flank, crossing a narrow sealed road in several places. Or even a sheep track—since it turns out the park is actually a working farm and they do, at one point, encounter a flock of sheep, all of whom seem entirely disinterested in them. Or just very accustomed to humans.

Bucky takes a photo and sends it to Clint.

The story behind the hill’s name—as Steve explains it, in between scolding Bucky for not shutting the farm gates properly behind him—is that a single tree of one variety or another has always stood atop it, for at least as long as Europeans have been in New Zealand anyway.

“But, there isn’t one up there,” Bucky points out, shielding his eyes to look at the summit.

“Not a big one,” Steve says. “The last one had to be removed a couple of decades ago after an activist took a chainsaw to it overnight.”

Bucky slows to catch his breath. The walk is a better workout than the gym ever was, although some air conditioning wouldn’t go amiss. Between the heat and the oiliness of the sunscreen Steve keeps insisting they wear, physical exertion isn’t the most pleasant experience.

“Why would they do that?” he asks.

Silent for a moment, Steve presses his lips together like he’s thinking. “It was a protest about Treaty of Waitangi settlements,” he says eventually, like he’s trying to compress a very large and thorny issue into terms Bucky might understand. “How the government had put a cap on the money that could be paid out to Māori for injustices committed against them by the Crown. Pretty similar story to most indigenous cultures around the world I’d say.”

What Bucky takes from this statement is probably best summarised as, _‘it’s complicated.’_

“Hmm… At least the government gave them something, I suppose,” he says, vaguely recalling what little of US history he was taught at school. Mostly just the stuff that could be glorified, while everything else was swept under a conveniently proverbial rug. “It could be worse.”

Steve makes a face. The kind that suggests Bucky is probably wrong. Or at the very least, greatly oversimplifying the problem.

He still replies with the same patient conviction as ever though. “You _could_ say that. Or, as I’m reliably informed, you could also say it was worth bugger all in comparison to the inequality that persists to this day.” 

Bucky settles for nodding, not really able to comment. Hell—he didn’t do enough research to know what tourist attractions he wanted to visit here, let alone to understand the culture or history of a country not his own.

“I always thought New Zealand was meant to be some great progressive utopia,” he ventures. “At least… that’s how the liberal media back home have been selling it for the last few years.”

Steve huffs, all but rolling his eyes. “I mean… we _try_. Maybe we even do better than a few other countries sometimes. But we’ve still got a lot of problems. They’re just different problems, I guess.”

The conversation tapers off after that, until they make it to the top. There, Bucky has to admit, the view was worth the effort. It’s glorious. A 360 degree panorama of the city—from deep-green forested hills to the west, skyscrapers to the north, and the sparkling waters of two harbours in the east and south-west. There’s an unplanned charm to it, as though the city grew slowly into its environment instead of suffocating it the way the steel and concrete of New York does.

He leans against the stone wall that encloses the summit, admiring it. Even the stones here are weird. Rough, jagged, and full of what look like tiny air bubbles beneath his hands.

“Over here,” Steve calls, motioning him over to the base of the obelisk.

It’s only a small one—in relative terms anyway. Relative being the lofty heights of the Washington Monument in D.C., which Bucky remembers visiting once during his teenage years. To one side of it stands a small cluster of trees protected by windbreak fabric, replacements presumably, for the one that met its unfortunate late-night demise, all those years ago.

A crowd of tourists mills around the viewing area and it soon becomes apparent that Steve has sweet-talked one into taking a photo for them. A cheerful woman with a thick French accent counts to three while Steve drags Bucky over to pose in front of the obelisk.

_“Un, deux, trois…”_

The woman hands the camera back and returns to her group, casting unsubtle looks at Steve like she wishes he’d ask for more than just a photo. It rubs Bucky entirely the wrong way. Glowering, he sends a dirty look her direction. Steve seems totally oblivious.

He’s wearing another too-tight shirt today, which Bucky has begun to realise is just normal for him, since they seem to make up about ninety percent of his wardrobe. Not that he’s complaining. Steve has a way of making even sweaty shirts look hot, and Bucky is totally here for it.

“Come on,” Steve says, grinning. “Let’s get off this volcano and get another cold drink.”

Head snapping around, Bucky shoots him a panicked glance. “Wait… volcano?”

Trust Steve to look completely unconcerned. “Oh… you didn’t read about that?” he asks. “All the hills in Auckland are…”

A city built on volcanoes? Why does it feel like only in New Zealand could that be considered a good idea…

On the way back down, Bucky’s phone chimes with a message.

> Clint: Where are you?

Debating any number of potential answers, most of which involve unfortunate allusions to his hopes of getting laid, Bucky hesitates.

> Bucky: So, about that… I’m actually going to keep travelling with Steve for a bit.

Clint starts typing almost immediately.

> Clint: Has he kidnapped you?

Bucky rolls his eyes.

> Bucky: No, he hasn’t kidnapped me.
> 
> Clint: So he’s just holding you hostage with really great 🍆 then?
> 
> Bucky: Clint!
> 
> Clint: Ok, well let me know if you need me to call the police. You know, just in case he steals your heart or anything.
> 
> Bucky: You’re the worst. That’s not even funny.
> 
> Clint: I aim to please.
> 
> Nat: You’re both as bad as each other. Just stay in touch, and let us know if you need us, ok Bucky?
> 
> Bucky: Thanks, I will.

Putting his phone away, Bucky feels the first flickers of excitement stirring in his chest. As though, by putting it in writing, he’s made his decision official.

It’s still too early to know how far this trip might go, or how far Bucky _wants_ it to go. But since Steve’s literally travelling the entire length of the country, and he’s unofficially implied he wouldn’t mind Bucky doing it with him…

There’s a lot more road to go before they reach the end of the line. And a lot could happen before they get there. 

So Bucky hopes anyway.

“So,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and managing to look literally everywhere but Bucky. “I uh… I guess we should probably talk expectations…”

They’re back in the ute again, stuck in traffic on the freeway south. Apparently rush hour on a Friday night is a concept universal to every decently sized city around the world. 

“Expectations?” Bucky asks, curious.

Steve manages to look even more uncomfortable, if that’s possible. “Yeah. Like… I’m really stoked you’ve chosen to come along, but um… the thing is… I kind of planned this as a solo trip. So I didn’t pack for a second person, or uh… budget for more fixed accommodation.”

“What do you mean, fixed?”

“I planned to camp.”

Which sounds a lot like Steve’s roundabout way of saying that from here on in, a tent is going to be the norm. Which Bucky can totally live with. He _can_. Even if he’s only been camping once in his entire life, and that was an experience and a half. But since it’s Steve’s trip, and Bucky’s only tagging along, it would be impolite to raise any objections.

The ute crawls several feet forward before traffic brings it to a stop again.

“Camping is fine,” Bucky reassures him.

“Yeah…” Steve says, still looking uneasy. “It’s just, there’s also the matter of me only having one air bed. So we’d be um… sharing.”

He chokes a little on the last word, a definite flush rising on his cheeks that can’t just be the heat. Not since it’s cooled going into late afternoon, with large puffy clouds whose shadows provide a welcome respite from the sun.

Excitement stirs, low in Bucky’s stomach. He tries not to look at Steve, gazing at nearby cars instead and ignoring the way his mouth feels abnormally dry. “I think I’m old enough to cope with sharing a bed.”

It’s not nearly as true a statement as he wants it to be. Even the mere thought of sharing a bed with Steve is enough to have Bucky shifting in his seat, just in case certain angles might betray how he’s feeling.

He chances another look at Steve. Those pretty sea-blue eyes of his are glued to the road, but there’s something almost too determined about the way they’re fixed on the vehicle in front. How he swallows thickly before managing to get out, “Good.”

It feels like the humid heat of the afternoon is standing still. Waiting for something—the first crack of thunder maybe.

Whatever it is, it never comes. Instead, Steve takes them on a detour to the mall to get essential supplies. A sleeping bag and pillow for Bucky, a spare towel, and extra food for them both. Thankfully Bucky notes, no extra bed. He can’t help smirking a little at that.

The supermarket is another place that highlights just how far Bucky is from home though. Sure, they have a few recognisable brands—like Oreos and Coca Cola—but all the everyday stuff looks different. Enough that Bucky has to actually pick it up and read the labels to know exactly what he’s buying. It doesn’t bother him so much as it’s disorienting, and takes twice as long to find what he wants. 

What he does mind, is that there’s no such thing as squeezable grape jelly in this country. Everything is jars of jam with actual chunks of fruit in it, none of them grape, which begs the obvious question—how is anyone supposed to make a proper peanut butter and jelly sandwich around here? Shaking his head, Bucky settles for the least chunky strawberry jam he can find. Then, it’s onto the next most important question.

“Where’s the candy in this place?” he asks Steve.

“Lollies are the next aisle over,” Steve says, pointing at a sign above their heads.

Bucky stares blankly. The what-now?

It causes Steve to chuckle. “Sorry, the candy.”

“What did you call it?”

“Lollies,” Steve says. “It’s what we call candy over here.”

“Lollies,” Bucky repeats, glancing up to confirm that that is in fact, what the sign says. Weird. No wonder he couldn’t find it. “Well, candies or lollies, whatever the name, you can’t do a road trip without them,” he says emphatically.

Steve’s mouth curves into the funny little half-smile it seems to adopt whenever Bucky does something that entertains him. “Sure. I can get behind that.”

The validation is undeniably satisfying. Not for the first time, Bucky has the distinct urge to message Brock and say, _‘See? Not everyone’s as much of an asshole as you.’_ But frankly, at this point, he could also kick Brock down the road and probably be happier for it.

“Okay. Back soon.”

Ducking around the corner, Bucky finds the aisle in question. And a whole new adventure. Just like everything else here, it’s as though his favourites don’t exist. Even the Hershey’s chocolate looks like a sad afterthought, shoved out of sight on a high shelf. M&M’s however, are apparently universal. 

On a whim, Bucky grabs several colourful packets of stuff he doesn’t recognise. When in Rome, right? After all, how wrong can candy go?

They get back in the ute, driving south to a campground that sits at the edges of a muddy harbour. It has none of the beauty of the beaches up north, but the weather’s still pleasantly mild, and after nearly a full week here Bucky’s finally starting to feel acclimated enough to stay awake into the evenings.

He helps Steve put up the tent, a task only accomplishable under close supervision due to his total dearth of experience. Unsurprisingly, Steve’s just as easy-going about that as he is about everything else.

“Not that pole, the other one,” he says, pointing to a pile of what look like fibreglass sticks in Bucky’s hand. “The ones with yellow on them.”

Bucky tries to follow Steve’s example, slotting the loosely connected pieces together to form a single long flexible pole. It’s not as easy as it looks though, and the damn thing’s incredibly unwieldy when it’s finally assembled. Steve demonstrates feeding it through a set of loops in the tent structure, setting his own pole at a cross-angle to Bucky’s. Together, they raise the entire structure off the ground and hook the pole-ends into purpose designed metal clips. A waterproof fly follows afterward, before they secure the whole thing down with pegs.

It makes Bucky feel proud. Definitely beats his last camping experience anyway.

Inside, the tent is modest—not quite tall enough to stand up straight in, and domed even further down at the edges. Fully inflated, Steve’s queen-sized air bed takes up most of the floor space. They’re basically going to be living on top of each other. But, as Steve points out, it’s not like they’ll be spending much time in it besides sleeping. There are places to be and sights to see.

That night, they brush their teeth in the communal bathroom, dragging out one last conversation for as long as humanly possible before retiring to bed. Even then, it still feels like they’re dancing around each other, careful to preserve the sanctity of personal space. Steve especially.

Truth be told, Bucky’s quietly curious to see where this sleeping arrangement will go. But Steve seems nervous as hell, clearing his throat and looking everywhere but Bucky. And when they finally do lie down together, cocooned in the safety of entirely separate sleeping bags, he seems to fall asleep quickly, his regular breathing soon easing to a soft murmur.

At least he doesn’t snore, Bucky supposes.

For his part, he lies awake for what feels like forever, hyperaware of Steve’s presence next to him. So close Bucky could reach out and touch him. Drape an arm around his prone form, clothes and all, just to see what he’d do.

The thought makes him hot all over. Tracing his fingers across Steve’s well built chest, or of Steve rolling over and kissing him back with those attractive full lips of his…

But the more time Bucky spends around Steve, the harder it’s becoming to see him as a simple conquest. He’s more than that. More complex, more mysterious, more nuanced, just… more.

Not that that helps Bucky get to sleep at all.

In the end, it’s counting the dozens of tiny _thwack_ noises the insects outside the tent make as they collide with its nylon skin, that finally lulls him into his dreams.

There’s always tomorrow…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * There's more information about the Treaty of Waitangi [here](https://nzhistory.govt.nz/politics/treaty/the-treaty-in-brief/). Basically, it was an agreement between Māori chiefs and the British Crown in 1840, ceding sovereignty of the country to the British, but preserving their rights to their lands (etc) in return for becoming British subjects. There are numerous problems with Treaty though, including but not limited to the fact that the English and Māori translations were different (with key words implying significantly different meanings), that not all chiefs signed it (but were bound by it anyway), and that the documents literally lay forgotten in the basement of the Government Buildings for a number of decades instead of being honoured. It is - as Steve suggests - an incredibly complex subject.
>   * A "hole" in the Earth's ozone layer forms over the South Pole every year, from roughly September - November. It's due to the use of CFC's in the past. Now they're banned it's slowly improving, but won't be completely healed for decades yet. The thinning of the ozone lets in more UV radiation, meaning in New Zealand (and Australia) it's possible to burn in only about 10 minutes outside in the middle of summer. Melanoma is our 4th most common cancer. Hence the importance of using sunscreen.
>   * Tomato sauce is basically ketchup. Allegedly ketchup is slightly thicker and more spiced, but if you blindfolded me, I'm pretty sure I couldn't tell the difference.
>   * "Tiki tour" is New Zealand slang for a scenic tour, generally one that takes the long way to a destination, or has no particular destination in mind.
>   * Sorry Auckland... Steve's a southern man. So he's not a big fan of the place ;)
> 



	6. What's the Matamata with you?

When Bucky wakes, Steve is already gone. It’s the first thing he notices—the silence and empty feeling of the tent giving it away. Though how Steve snuck off an air bed that seems to have half-deflated in the night and left Bucky sagging against the ground is anyone’s guess.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Bucky fumbles around for his phone. It’s seven already. Surprisingly late, given how early he’s been waking up since he arrived here. He has a string of messages from Becca too. Not surprising, since she’ll have been awake for hours by now.

He taps into them, then quickly wishes he hadn’t.

> Becca: OMG. Did nothing Mom and Dad taught you about stranger danger ever sink in?
> 
> Becca: I can’t believe you ditched Nat and Clint and ran off with some random hot guy.
> 
> Becca: Who is the random hot guy anyway? Because… DAMN.

Groaning, Bucky rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in his pillow. Maybe if he ignores her she’ll go away. But knowing Becca… probably not.

If there’s one thing the two of them have always shared, it’s all the details of their respective relationships. Probably because of their similar taste in men… with the exception of Brock, of course. Not that Becca didn’t agree he wasn’t capable of a certain charm when he felt like it; but she also insisted that with her, he’d either have had to shape up, or she’d have kicked his ass to the curb.

Bucky never had any doubt she would’ve done it as well. Becca was a force to be reckoned with in every aspect of life, relationships included. Between her and Bucky, it had always been pretty obvious who had the steel to hack it in the dog-eat-dog world of corporate law, and who was more suited to hosting charity lunches.

A fact their parents had just had to come to terms with over the years, much to their father’s chagrin.

Bucky hits reply.

> Bucky: The hot guy’s name is Steve.
> 
> Bucky: I’m pretty sure he’s not going to murder me.
> 
> Bucky: So he tells me anyway.

Let her stew on that.

Putting his phone away, he disentangles himself from his new sleeping bag and picks out some clothes for today. Something a little flattering, to show off his best parts.

Just as he’s leaving the tent for the shower block, Steve shows up. He’s wearing sweaty running gear, with shorts short enough to expose the well-toned lines of his thighs. Just like his arms, there’s an attractive dusting of dark blond hair across them, and Bucky can’t help but stare at it. And at the attractive flush high on Steve’s cheeks while he stands around, downing half a bottle of water and getting his breath back.

“You went for a run?” Bucky asks, trying not to look like he’s staring. Even though he absolutely is.

Steve stretches, exposing even more of his toned musculature. “Yeah. I usually do in the mornings. I’m used to getting up early on the farm, so even when I’m not there, I still do it. You were asleep though, so I didn’t want to wake you.”

It’s another little snippet of information that tells Bucky more about Steve, however slight. And gives him an idea…

“So now that I’m getting used to this time zone, do you think I could come with you?” he asks. “At home I usually get up early to go to the gym before work. It’d be good to keep up the exercise.”

Steve looks positively thrilled. “Of course! I’d enjoy having your company.”

It leaves them both grinning at each other, excited to have something in common. Then Bucky realises his hair is still fluffy from bed and he’s pretty sure Steve’s looking at it. But of course he is… he won’t have seen it like this before. Prior to Bucky getting it under control, that is. Self-consciously, he tries to smooth it down.

Steve makes a funny noise low in his throat, which he quickly manages to turn into a cough. His eyes dart away. “So um… I think I might go for a shower now.”

Bucky really hopes he means a cold shower. The same kind he needs himself right now. But if that’s how Steve feels, there’s no telling it from his well-controlled expression. Oh well.

“I’ll come with you,” Bucky says.

The next few minutes prove that if there’s a worse torture than having to lie next to Steve in bed without making a move, it’s showering in the next stall over from him. Listening to him hum quietly to himself and imagining that muscled physique of his all slick and soapy under the hot spray…

It gives Bucky an erection he has a very hard time willing away before breakfast.

They eat in the campground kitchen—some kind of crumbly wheat bar thing that soaks up an inordinate amount of milk but still manages to taste like cardboard, even with a healthy helping of sliced peaches on it. Steve says it’s popular, but if _that’s_ a popular cereal here, Bucky doesn’t think it says much for the country’s tastes. Nothing good anyway.

But neither does the spread Steve puts in their sandwiches for later. It’s thick and black, like something drained out of a car engine, and smells disgustingly salty. A bit like a super-condensed gravy of some kind.

Bucky screws up his nose. “Marmite?” he asks, reading off the label on the jar.

“Yeah,” Steve says, putting the finishing touches on his bread. “And on second thought, maybe you should try it before I put it in yours. I’m told it’s an acquired taste.”

“Okay.” Bucky shrugs. Of the various weird and wonderful foods he’s tried in New York, this looks like it would rate fairly low on the list. After all, it doesn’t have bugs in it like those tacos from the food festival a few years ago…

He grabs a slice of bread, spreads Marmite thickly all over it, then takes a bite.

Steve turns from what he’s doing, eyes widening. “Whoa Bucky, it’s not peanut butter, you don’t want to be putting that much on—”

It’s like sucking a lemon. Or swallowing salt water.

Bucky grimaces, barely managing to finish his mouthful. He grabs the glass of water Steve pushes towards him, downing it in its entirety.

“I told you it was an acquired taste,” Steve says, looking remorseful.

“Acquired taste? Steve, you could assassinate presidents with that stuff!”

“I mean, I don’t think it’s that bad…”

“It’s definitely that bad,” Bucky says, setting his glass on the counter with a decisive clunk.

Steve looks away uneasily. As though he might be in trouble or something. “Yeah… I guess I should’ve known that was going to happen…”

Imperiously, Bucky reaches past him, going for the security of the tried and true. “I promise, once you’ve tried my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, you’ll never want to go back to whatever that stuff is.”

A slightly bemused expression creeps onto Steve’s face. “Oh? I never did understand the American thing about putting those two together.”

“But… it’s the best combination! How can you not like it?”

“How can you not like Marmite?”

Bucky puffs out his cheeks in indignation. “How can _you_ like it?”

Chuckling, Steve lets his eyes linger on Bucky too long, warm and full of amusement. “I think I like getting you all worked up.”

A hot shiver slides down Bucky’s spine. He likes the idea of Steve getting him all worked up too. Lifting him onto the counter maybe, and bracketing him between those big strong arms of his, with his body pressed right between Bucky’s legs…

But before he can admit as much, Steve goes bright red. “Oh my God. I just realised how that sounds,” he says in horror. “That didn’t come out how I meant it to at all. I’m sorry... ”

Disappointment claws at Bucky’s stomach. Part of him wants to grab Steve, look him straight in the eye, and tell him he’d fucking love it if he meant it how it sounds. In fact, he wishes he did.

But maybe Steve doesn’t want that. So Bucky hesitates. And in the time he spends being tongue-tied, the moment passes. “It’s okay,” he says awkwardly. “I mean… I didn’t assume or anything…”

“No, it was my fault. I can never seem to say what I mean,” Steve insists.

“Really, it’s not a problem…”

Next thing, there’s a forced, high-pitched sounding laugh in the room and Bucky realises with a start it belongs to him. God he’s just a fucking textbook gay disaster isn’t he?

“So where are we going today?” he asks, trying to change the topic for both their sakes.

Steve looks profoundly grateful, which Bucky will take as a win. “I thought we’d go to Matamata.”

“Matamata?”

“What’s the Matamata with you?” Steve says, delivering this punchline with a pleased grin, like it’s joke of the year or something. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. Steve’s sense of humour is truly questionable, even at the best of times. And that was definitely not one of his best times.

“Okaaaay, let me rephrase that,” Steve says, clapping his hands as though to silence the army of crickets that have invaded the room. “Matamata, better known as the location of Hobbiton.”

“Hobbiton!?”

Now Steve’s got Bucky screaming for an entirely different reason.

“Yeah. You did say you were a Lord of the Rings fan…”

Honestly, Bucky could just hug him for that. He does a little happy dance on the spot. “It’s near here?”

Steve tilts his head thoughtfully. “Near enough. Only a couple of hours drive away. There’s just one other place I want to visit on the way though.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, handwaving the detail and turning his full attention back to his sandwich. The sooner he gets it done, the sooner they can pack up and get on the road. “I don’t mind.”

It’s a giant bottle.

Like honestly, a twenty foot tall sculpture of a soda bottle, decked out in the colours of some local brand, located in a park, in a small town nestled beneath the hills. 

“What… is that?” Bucky asks flatly, not afraid to make his disdain known.

“Local landmark,” Steve says with a cheerful smile. “World famous in New Zealand.”

World famous for being the worst maybe. Bucky’s at a loss as to why anyone would bother spending actual money to build something so mundane. Even so, there are still a handful of tourists wandering around it.

Steve convinces one of them to take a photo of him and Bucky in front of the bottle, much the same way he did at One Tree Hill. It’s an oddly specific thing to do, in a way that has Bucky filing it in the back of his mind for later inspection.

Once they’re back on the road, they drive south across a sweeping open plain divided neatly into farm fields. In the distance stand the steep forest-clad hills they’ve just come from, while to their right rises more gently rolling terrain. Most of the space between is lush with grass and speckled with herds of black and white dairy cows. The remaining areas stand dense with crops, corn perhaps, slender stalks swaying in the breeze.

Bucky rests his arm along the open window. It’s cooler today than it has been for the past week, though still pleasantly mild compared to back home. Ironic really, for the first day of summer.

 _Summer_.

Back in New York the cold is only just starting to settle in at this time of year. As though winter wants to remind everyone that technically it’s arrived, but still allow plenty of time to dread the short dark days and blizzards that drive the cold and snow down from the Arctic, until even the shortest time spent outside is a misery.

But this… this Bucky could get used to.

Even if it means putting up with Steve’s love of old fashioned music. He’s humming along quietly to Fleetwood Mac again, which, as far as Bucky can tell, is his go-to whenever they can’t find a decent radio station or it’s the time of day when the presenters mostly talk.

“So,” Steve says all of a sudden. “You said you were in marketing.”

He looks at Bucky with quiet curiosity and Bucky senses there’s a question behind it. “Yeah.”

“Why marketing?”

It’s hard not to laugh. Might as well ask why people eat cereal for breakfast instead of cooking eggs, or settle for boyfriends they shouldn’t.

“It was easy. And it kept my parents happy.”

The face Steve makes suggests that isn’t quite what he was expecting. “Oh. So it wasn’t what you wanted to do?”

Bucky sighs. It’s not a topic he particularly enjoys talking about. But he supposes you can’t just jump into a random guy’s car and not expect him to ask about your background. It’s only fair.

“See…” he begins, trying to figure out how to explain the Barnes family to Steve without sounding like a hopelessly pretentious asshole. “The thing you have to understand about my family is that they’re old money. They have a whole lot of unspoken standards to keep, and getting a college degree is one of them. It’s basically mandatory. And not just any college degree. If you listen to my dad, my great great grandfather was a lawyer, and every Barnes since then has joined the family business.”

“Sounds intimidating.”

“You could say that,” Bucky agrees, staring out the window at a mountain in the distance topped by a spindly broadcasting tower. Dark clouds build along the ridges to either side of it, bubbling up with the threat of rain. “It never interested me. All that arguing over pointless things… it always seemed so sterile. I guess I just preferred dealing with people. And I suppose you can argue that people are involved in lawyering work too, but it’s never for things they’re happy about, you know? No one goes to see a lawyer when life is going great.”

Now he’s started talking, it feels like the whole story is gushing out of him the same way a river tumbles over rapids. Flowing with an inevitability it’s impossible to stop.

“I never really had a choice. I knew if I didn’t go to college I’d never be welcome at another family Thanksgiving again. So I applied to Columbia because it’s Ivy League and I knew Mom and Dad would disapprove slightly less when I told them I wasn’t doing law. I didn’t know what I _was_ going to study, but marketing was what I hated least. So that’s what I signed up for.”

“Oh,” Steve says, unusually quiet.

Bucky can’t help a wry laugh. He knows he probably sounds bitter and out of touch with reality. Complaining about his parents paying his way through a college most people would kill to go to. But when Steve talked about his own study, he did it with so much passion. Like it was something he really cared about. It’s hard not to feel at least a little jealous of that. Harder still, for Bucky to imagine feeling that way about _anything_ , let alone his own studies. They were always just a means to an end.

He supposes he should try not to sound like a complete asshole though. “I know I was lucky to have the options I did. And I’m grateful my sister saved me from our family expectations. She’s the lawyer, and she’s far better at it than I could ever have been anyway.”

Steve perks up. “Oh, you have a sister? Older or younger?”

Bucky rubs some dust off the window frame. “Younger, by a couple of years. But she’s always had her life sorted out. I don’t know… I’m pretty sure she knew she was going to be a lawyer the day she was born. And I’ve always just been… me.”

There’s something gentle about the expression Steve’s face takes on. A quality that makes Bucky’s chest twist with a mess of unfamiliar mushy feelings.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Steve says. “Monet didn’t start painting until he was in his forties. Mary Delaney only created her famous art in her seventies. I’m thirty and I wish I knew what I was doing with my life.” He glances over at Bucky, thoroughly earnest. “I’m pretty sure people like your sister are the odd ones out. And for what it’s worth… I really like Bucky Barnes the non-lawyer.”

The mushy feeling in Bucky’s chest intensifies. There’s literally no way he can’t smile. Sure, it might be the sort of reassuring thing anyone could say. But when Steve says it, Bucky knows he means it.

He turns back to the view, hiding too-warm cheeks. “Thanks.”

They continue down the road for several more minutes before Bucky thinks to ask, “What about you? Any siblings?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nope. Just me.”

It’s not much, but it is one more thing Bucky can add to the puzzle that is Steven Grant Rogers. All-around smoking hot nice guy in a way that seems too good to be true. But it’s not like Bucky really knows Steve yet either. Maybe he’s still got a few skeletons in his closet yet.

“We’re here,” Steve says, totally interrupting his train of thought.

Bucky sits up straighter.

Towering specimen trees line the road into town, concealing the railway track that parallels it. Dated houses and a couple of industrial yards lie on the opposite side, set back from traffic behind faded wooden fences with peeling paint. Milk tankers and freight trucks pass by, trundling through the centre of town, presumably on their way to other, bigger places.

Steve takes a left at a traffic-circle which leads to a small set of shops, mostly catering to the obvious agricultural demographic of the area. 

In the midst of them, Bucky spots an eye-catching building. As though someone took a tiny part of The Shire and dropped it into an otherwise mundane rural service town. A cottage with distinctly rounded windows and doors, a steep thatched roof and a stone chimney. He laughs in delight.

Steve smiles. “Easy there New Yorker, that’s just the local information site.”

Which… makes sense. It’s not like anyone would build a movie set smack bang in the middle of a town, right? No matter how small a town it might be. 

“We’re just stopping for lunch,” Steve explains. “I booked our tour online yesterday.”

“Online?” Bucky teases, unable to help himself. “You actually know how to do that?”

“Oh ha-ha.” Steve smiles. “I didn’t want you to miss out. It’s a pretty cool place, and the tours sell out fast.”

Truth be told, the fact he even thought to do it is making Bucky feel all warm inside. And maybe like he should try being a bit less of an ass, if just for a minute.

“Hey, Steve…” Bucky smiles tentatively. “Thank you.”

Looking gratified and more than a little overwhelmed, Steve rubs the back of his neck. “No worries.”

They still can’t agree on sandwich spreads though. Because as polite as Steve is about Bucky’s peanut butter and jelly preferences, when pressed, he admits he feels like it’s a good way to ruin both. Which frankly, is just blasphemous. And equally, no amount of convincing on Steve’s part will entice Bucky to try any more of that awful Marmite stuff.

Some differences are just too big to overcome, obviously.

After lunch they drive out to the movie set. A shuttle bus picks them up from the parking lot, carrying them through the winding unsealed roads of a working farm. Small mobs of sheep stand idly in the fields, grazing and watching the bus go by.

Steve gazes out the window, lost in thought. “Nice pasture,” he remarks after a bit. “Looks like they get a lot more rainfall than back home. Probably wouldn’t have to feed out as much.”

Incredulous, Bucky gives him a _look_ , utilising all of his self control not to bury his face in one palm. “Oh my God. We’re going to Hobbiton and all you can do is talk about grass?”

Steve looks mildly affronted. “People really underestimate the value of good grass! There’s actually quite a lot to it…”

“Oh sure…” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

It must be the insincere tone to his voice that gives the game away, because Steve glances at him again, then kind of trails off. “Ah yeah… I guess it probably doesn’t interest you.”

It is tempting to affirm his belief. Farming isn’t one of Bucky’s interests, grass even less so. But when Steve talks about it—which he does often—it’s with just as much passion as he does art. And since Bucky likes listening to whatever Steve has to say…

“I could probably learn,” he says, trying to sound slightly more enthused by the prospect than he feels. “If it’s important to you.”

“Oh,” Steve says, looking down at his lap with a surprised little smile. Like he wasn’t expecting that. 

It makes Bucky’s heart flutter oddly. He chalks it up as a win for himself. Even more so, because some remnant of Steve’s smile persists right up until they arrive a few minutes later, piling out of the bus with about thirty other tourists.

Their guide moves purposefully, an ebullient spring in her step as she claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. There’s a short speech about making sure they stick to the group and remembering to get their free drink at the end of the tour, then they set off. A narrow gravel path takes them over a slight rise, opening into a natural amphitheatre around a lake.

Bucky gasps.

It’s like he’s literally walked into the Lord of the Ring movies. Colourful hobbit-holes are scattered amongst the hills, with signposts adorned in Middle Earth script pointing to places like West Farthing, Bagshot Row, and Overhill. The path leads steadily upslope, past bright round doors and rambling cottage gardens, every single one of them overflowing with colourful summer flowers.

It’s meticulous—every detail lovingly recreated with a lived-in realism. Hobbit-sized tables and chairs adorn front gardens, with oversized pumpkins and rich red apples Bucky’s pretty sure are real—if the pumpkin vines growing off the roof of one hobbit hole are anything to go by. Miniature wheelbarrows are laden with vegetables, kitchenware sits behind glass windows, and washing lines are hung with clothes. Notice boards feature lost and found inquiries, and numerous ‘for sale’ advertisements. It’s like the hobbits went out for a walk and simply forgot to come back.

He spends most of the tour bouncing on his heels, trying not to grab Steve’s arm as he points to one thing after another. Steve doesn’t seem to mind though. If anything, he looks gratified by Bucky’s enthusiasm.

“Oh my god…” Bucky babbles as their guide goes off on another information spiel. “Did she say that oak tree by Bag End is fake? It looks so real!”

But a multi-million dollar budget and thousands of fake silk leaves from Taiwan will have that effect, he supposes.

The downside is how many other people are here, too. There’s a constant stream of them, crawling uphill like a trail of ants. It means their group moves nowhere fast—or at least, not as fast as Bucky would like it to move. Conversely, whenever they get near something he’d like to see, there’s no time to linger. It doesn’t seem to bother Steve, but unlike Bucky, he’s been here before.

At the very top of the hill stands Bag End, behind a small gate complete with the sign, ‘No admittance except on party business.’ Sadly, that means Bucky can’t stand at the threshold and poke his head inside, like he wants to. Although, from what little he can see through the ajar door, it looks like the hobbit holes are façade only. Beyond the entrance, a plywood interior extends only a few feet deep. Everything else must have been filmed on a sound stage somewhere.

It’s not like it completely ruins the experience… but it does take a little of the shine off. Knowing that the magic stops at the front door.

Still, the view from the top is nice—across the lake to the Green Dragon Pub. Their group ambles down the hill, leaving the rest of the crowd to get their Insta-worthy shots in front of Bilbo’s home.

Down near the stone bridge over the lake there’s an actual working water wheel—its soft, rhythmic swish a complementary melody to the rustling of trees and buzz of cicadas. It’s exactly the sort of place Bucky can imagine sitting beneath a tree and reading a book, just like Frodo. It makes him long to drag his heels and stop in the middle of the bridge’s span, just to take it all in. To pretend Gandalf is about to ride by with his wagon of fireworks, headed to the party that starts everything.

But the steady stream of tourists passing by makes that impossible. There’s literally nowhere to stop that isn’t in someone’s way. Instead, he and Steve crowd into the Green Dragon, standing on line for their drinks with dozens of others.

The pub itself is magnificent, inhabiting its aged-wood beams and rough plaster render like it really has stood for centuries, not less than ten years. Faux-gas lighting makes it feel cosy even though it’s midday and summertime outside, and the glazed earthenware their ginger beer is served in completes the rustic effect.

But here, too, Bucky can’t forget they’re not really in the movies, with no shortage of selfie-taking couples and kids running around screaming, ruining the atmosphere. For all that, it’s still—as Steve said—a pretty cool experience. One Bucky wouldn’t have missed for anything.

Before they leave, he buys a Lord of the Rings location guidebook from the gift shop. He might well have arrived in New Zealand unprepared, but now that he’s here, he’s determined to make the most of it.

“So,” Steve says during the drive back into town. “Have I convinced you to like the country yet?”

“I don’t know…” Bucky says, affecting insincerity.

“You don’t know?”

If every day with Steve is going to be like today, Bucky’s not sure he wants it to be over yet.

“You were right, today was pretty cool. But as for the rest of your country? I’m not convinced yet. I think I might have to see more of it before I decide.” He looks directly at Steve as he says it. Wills him to get the implication.

One side of Steve’s mouth tugs up. “You want to see more?”

And goddamn, when Steve talks with his voice all smooth and low like that, Bucky sure as hell has some ideas about what parts of the country he’d like to see more of. Not anything that would appear in a tourist pamphlet, that’s for sure.

“Yeah, I think so. I’ve got to experience everything before I decide, right?”

There’s a gratifyingly breathless quality to Steve’s voice when he replies, “And uh… are you planning on doing this sightseeing with me? Or…”

“You said you were going to Invercargill. All the way down south, right?” Bucky asks.

“Well yeah, but I figured you’d probably want to meet up with your friends again at some point. You came here with them after all, and I don’t want to get in the way of that, or the trip you have planned. So just tell me how far you want to go and I’ll—”

“All the way,” Bucky interrupts firmly.

There aren’t many things he’s been sure of in his life, but he’s sure about this. Wherever the road here leads, he wants to travel it with Steve.

Steve stares at him, slightly wide-eyed. 

“I want to go all the way with you,” Bucky reiterates. “To the end of the line, if you’ll have me.”

“To the end of the line…” Steve repeats, frowning like he’s turning over a complicated math problem in his head.

“Unless… that’s a problem?” Bucky asks, unease suddenly churning in his stomach.

What if Steve refuses? What if Bucky’s just overstepped the mark? Shit. He doesn’t even know if Steve’s open to having a passenger the whole way. He never did specify. Or if he’s interested in Bucky the same way Bucky’s interested in him.

The silence stretches out to multiple seconds, and in Bucky’s head, the word ‘fuck’ plays on repeat.

“Works for me,” Steve says easily.

Bucky lets go of the breath he’s been holding.

“But,” Steve says, looking thoughtful. “I guess that means we need to agree on an itinerary.”

Pushing their dirty dinner plates along the stainless steel countertop of the campground kitchen, Bucky flattens his new guidebook open to the page he wants. “Okay, so it says here there’s a few locations around Wellington, too? Rivendell and some place I can’t pronounce where they filmed Dimholt Road.”

Steve looks over Bucky’s shoulder, close enough to make him shudder pleasantly.

“Putangirua,” he says helpfully.

Bucky turns a dry look on him. “I’m not even going to try and pronounce that.”

It elicits a smile from Steve. He moves back to the notice board and removes one of Bucky’s chosen red thumb tacks, pinning it firmly in the middle of a paper map of New Zealand that seems to exist in the campground solely for this purpose. “Okay, Wellington’s on the list. That’s good since I want to go there too. And it’s where we board the ferry south.”

There’s a smattering of tacks across the map, red for Bucky, blue for Steve. Bucky’s are all quite logical, mostly made up of filming sites or other major tourist destinations that Steve insists he has to see. Steve’s however, seem totally haphazard. Spread randomly across the map from north to south, twelve of them in total.

Fairly certain they’ve captured the major highlights, Bucky flips the guide book face down and wanders over, trying to find the logic in the places Steve wants to visit. But there’s absolutely no common theme to them. Some are cities, while others look like they’re in the middle of nowhere.

“Why these places?” he asks, ghosting his fingers across them.

As though purposefully avoiding Bucky’s gaze, Steve stares at the map. Eventually, he sighs. “I think this is going to be easiest if…” He points a thumb outside. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Bucky watches him go, confused as to what part of explaining points on a map requires Steve to leave the room to do it. But a couple of minutes later, after the unmistakeable thunk of the old ute’s doors being closed, Steve returns with a book in hand. An old fashioned photo album, with actual hard copy prints in it, of the sort Bucky hasn’t seen for years. Not since he last perused his parents lesser used bookshelves anyway.

Steve places it on the counter and opens it to the first page.

There’s a photo of two young people—a woman with Steve’s sunny golden hair and bright smile, and a serious-faced man who shares his football player’s build and height. They’re standing next to a landmark Bucky now recognises all too well.

“Cape Reinga?” he asks, looking to Steve for confirmation. 

Steve nods, indicating that Bucky should flip to the next page. It’s the same couple, standing beside the stone obelisk on One Tree Hill. Then the ridiculously oversized soda bottle. Bucky keeps going. Every turn of the page reveals a new landmark.

She’s in a breezy flower-patterned dress, he’s in shorts and flip flops. There’s a bright yellow Mini parked beside them. They’re at a viewing point, looking out over a city squashed between the hills and harbour. Hand in hand on a jetty out over a lake, with matching thousand-watt smiles. In hiking boots at the bottom of a glacier, wearing horrifically eighties fluoro-coloured rain coats.

Twelve photos in all, to match Steve’s twelve locations on the map.

“Steve—”

“My parents,” Steve says, his expression tinged with something nostalgic. “They went on a road trip back in the summer of eighty-seven in Dad’s Mini. He wanted to recreate the journey from the Pork Pie movie. Family tradition, I guess you could say.”

Reverently, Bucky runs his fingers around the yellowing plastic of the album’s pages, feeling like he’s been let in on a secret. “So… you want to go to the same places they did?”

“Pretty much, yeah. If that works for you.”

As if Bucky could say no to an explanation like that. It’s Steve’s trip, after all. Besides, the idea of him wanting to re-create a journey his parents went on over thirty years ago is undeniably sweet. It makes Bucky’s chest feel fluttery, in a strange kind of way.

“I love the idea,” he says, landing a little too far on the side of aggressively vehement not to sound like he’s totally falling for Steve.

The bright smile Steve gives him is totally worth it though. “Cool,” he says, like he’s at a loss for words. “Really cool.”

It turns into another one of those awkward moments where they both end up staring at each other far too long, and Bucky yearns to reach out and settle his hand over Steve’s where it’s resting on the edge of the countertop…

“Sooo,” Steve says, tucking both hands firmly in his pockets like he’s goddamn psychic or something. “I guess that gives us a rough itinerary.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky croaks out, mouth unexpectedly dry. He looks back to the map, licking his lips. “But how does this work for your Pork Pie run? I feel like I’ve messed up all your plans.”

A faint smile graces Steve’s handsome face. It only draws more attention to that damn beard of his, the one Bucky still longs to get all up close and personal with…

“Actually, it makes me think of something Mum was always telling me,” Steve muses. “That life’s about the journey, not the destination.”

It’s probably the opposite to what Bucky’s parents would tell him, _if_ he was deigning to answer any of their messages right now. They’d say the destination is everything, and the sooner you get there the better. Usually, Bucky would agree. He’s got most of his life to show for that—a college degree, a mundane job, and a socially acceptable relationship. Or, maybe not the last two anymore…

So perhaps there’s something to what Steve’s saying.

“I think we’ve got a pretty good journey planned,” Bucky declares confidently.

“Yeah… I think we do,” Steve agrees.

There’s still a pervasive sense of melancholy lingering around him though. Bucky’s not entirely sure how he can tell, but he thinks he might be getting a little better at reading Steve’s subtle cues. For a guy who, at first impression, seems to wear his heart on his sleeve, there’s actually a lot more to him. The same way an ocean can hide an entire thriving coral reef just below its surface.

But all too soon the moment is gone, and Steve’s eyes crinkle with another cheerful smile. “How do you feel about hot pools?”

The answer to how Bucky feels about hot pools lies almost entirely in his enthusiasm at the idea of getting to see Steve with his shirt off.

There’s a private pool at the campground they’re staying at and, for a few dollars, he and Steve rent it for an hour. Towels in hand, they pick their way down a crumbling set of concrete stairs overhung by thick foliage, to a deep square pool at the bottom. Almost entirely enclosed by trees, it feels like it’s in its own little world. At nine o’clock, the light is only just beginning to fade from the sky, dusting it with pretty streaks of amber and mauve.

Bucky slips into the water. He luxuriates in the warmth of it, briefly closing his eyes before settling his arms along the pool’s tiled edge. Steam rises off its surface and his skin, smelling faintly of minerals. Through it, he watches Steve undress. First his shoes and socks, which he sets carefully to one side. Then the towel from around his waist, neatly folded and draped over a chair, revealing his swimming trunks beneath. And finally, his shirt.

He peels it off just as slowly as everything else, giving Bucky plenty of time to watch the glorious flex of his muscles. It’s enough to leave him practically salivating in anticipation. He’d sell his soul for one night in bed with Steve. Well… one night not spent in separate sleeping bags anyway.

As the shirt joins the rest of Steve’s clothing it reveals a set of deliciously sculpted abs, and the pert pink nipples Bucky’s been longing to see all week. Perhaps more surprising though, is the small stylised fern-leaf tattoo over Steve’s heart, inked in black. And around his neck hangs a dark green pendant shaped like a fish hook.

He slips elegantly into the water and Bucky can’t help but stare, even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s not hard to imagine inching over to Steve, closer and closer until they’re finally touching…

“Hey, you still conscious over there?” Steve asks, waving a hand in Bucky’s direction.

Goddamn… is Bucky’s face hot, or is it just the temperature of the surrounding water that’s making him feel like he’s burning up?

He flicks water across at Steve. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Who’s being an ass?”

A short water fight ensues, ending with both of them hot, panting, and just as saturated as if they’d immersed themselves fully. Water drips from Steve’s usually immaculate hair, plastered in wet strands across his forehead. He pushes it out of his eyes, laughing.

“Remind me never to piss you off. You’re a force to be reckoned with.”

Preening a little at the compliment, Bucky reclines against the edge of the pool, viewing Steve through the fine spray of droplets misting his eyelashes. “So what’s the story with the necklace?”

A leaf floats into the pool, spinning on invisible water currents. Bucky fans it aimlessly from beneath the surface while he waits for Steve to answer. It’s not like there’s any hurry.

“It’s pounamu…” Steve says. “Greenstone. A friend made it for me. Kind of goes with a tattoo, bad decision that _that_ was…”

“You don’t like it?”

Steve looks faintly embarrassed. “Not the tattoo. It’s kind of cheesy…”

Bucky snags the leaf, cupping it in his hands and dropping it out of the pool along with a handful of water. “So why’d you get it then?”

“I was homesick. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Homesick?” Bucky frowns. 

Steve reclines against the tiles, exposing the attractive curve of his throat and the swell of his Adam’s apple. He closes his eyes.

It makes for a very pretty vantage. Bucky swallows. He’s pretty sure he’s got half an erection, at least, even in this heat. Thank God the water hides it. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I had it done in London, while I was living over there after uni. I guess I wanted something permanent to remind me of home.”

“London?” Bucky asks, surprised.

“Yeah.”

“And where does the necklace fit in?”

Unconsciously, Steve’s hand strays up to it, tracing its smooth surface with his fingertips. “Like I said, a friend made it for me, before I left New Zealand. He said the design meant good luck and safe travels, especially over water. Said I’d need it going all the way to London. Since I got there and back safely, more than once, I suppose he must’ve been right.”

Bucky stares at him, trying to reconcile this new side to Steve’s life with his existing understanding. “More than once? How long were you over there?”

“A couple of years. And…” Steve pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “There was even a time when I thought I might stay for good.”

That makes Bucky curious. For a guy who owns a farm, and comes across as pretty enthusiastic about his country, it seems strange that Steve would ever consider living elsewhere.

Of course, the polite thing to do would be not to pry. But that’s like asking Bucky not to shake his Christmas presents the night before… It’s never going to happen.

“What took you over there?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light.

Steve’s eyes are still closed, but his mouth twists into a strangely wry smile. “What takes anyone halfway across the world? First it was the art. Then it was the woman…”

It feels like someone’s tipped ice water over Bucky, even though his neck is still slick with sweat. A woman? But that means…

He feels vaguely sick.

“I think it’s too hot for me in here,” he declares bluntly, lifting himself out of the pool. “I’m going to go back to the tent and read or something.”

Steve glances over. He seems almost a little hurt. “Are you sure?”

Trying not to let the prickling behind his eyes become actual waterworks, Bucky just nods. “Yup. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay…”

Steve watches him the whole way up the stairs. Bucky’s pretty sure he can tell something’s off, but he doesn’t ask, and Bucky wouldn’t tell him anyway. What would he say? That he’s upset he was stupid enough to want something Steve can’t give him?

It irks him even more after he’s marched back to the tent, only to find a message from Becca that he missed earlier in the day.

> Becca: I demand to know more about the random hot guy.

In a fit of pique, Bucky flops onto the air bed, typing a savage reply.

> Bucky: It seems we have irreconcilable differences over sandwich spreads and sexual orientation. 

Even worse is the fact he knows Becca won’t reply any time soon, because in New York it’s still early in the morning. Far too early for her to be awake. So there’s no point Bucky having a complete meltdown over the fact he’s just agreed to an entire road trip with a guy who’s not interested in him. Not that Steve isn’t a nice person, or fun to be around, but the chance to have something more with him was the whole damn point of getting in his car. So if that’s off the table…

Bucky clenches his fists. It’s tempting to pull the pin right now. Maybe if he does it early—just makes up some dumb excuse about circumstances having changed, and Clint and Nat needing him back—maybe Steve won’t think he’s a total asshole.

He rolls onto his back, staring up at the nylon seams of the tent roof.

Who is he kidding? It would obviously be an asshole move to turn around and leave now, and Steve’s too nice a guy to deserve that. Just because Bucky misread a few signals and saw something that wasn’t there, doesn’t make it Steve’s problem. Maybe he can bow out more gracefully a few days from now.

It doesn’t make him feel any less miserable in the present though.

He sniffles into his pillow for a bit, debating whether to message Nat and Clint with the news, before deciding in no uncertain terms he can’t deal with the amount of shit Clint will give him right now. It can wait. Forever, preferably.

Disheartened, he crawls into his sleeping bag, faking sleep when Steve returns. He slips into the tent quietly, hesitating for a long time before finally lying down next to Bucky. Not surprising, since Bucky’s pretty much just shown his hand. So if Steve knows…

Even so, he still falls asleep long before Bucky does. A skill Bucky is truly jealous of.

Hands gripped tightly around his pillow, he wallows in self-pity for an inordinately long time before sleep finally graces him with its sweet release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * The giant soda bottle Bucky and Steve visit is for L&P - Lemon and Paeroa - a local brand. Paeroa is the town it was first produced in and the location of the giant bottle. It's "World famous in New Zealand," and definitely part of Kiwiana now. I really cannot describe the flavour. Its like... lemony. Sort of. There's a brief Wikipedia article [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lemon_%26_Paeroa).
>   * Pounamu is the Māori name for what's otherwise known as "greenstone" or "jade." Pounamu carving is a big part of the traditional culture, although it's now fairly common for non-Māori to own pounamu pendants too. You can read more about the history and significance of it [here](https://teara.govt.nz/en/pounamu-jade-or-greenstone/). Steve's pendant is a Hei Matau design (fish hook) made of flower pounamu (the colour), which features on the cover of this story back in Chapter 1.
> 



	7. Trust Me, New Yorker

The new dawn arrives, rainy and overcast, an almost perfect match for Bucky’s mood. It’s convenient too, how it gives him a reason not to go for a run with Steve like he promised. Instead, he drags himself to the camp kitchen, steamy with the heat and smell of other people’s cooked breakfasts, and makes himself a coffee.

Black like his mood.

About half an hour later Steve turns up. Preoccupied as he is with sulking into his second mug of caffeine, Bucky doesn’t even notice until the seat across from him is suddenly occupied. Steve sets a mug of tea down on the worn square-edged table, watching Bucky with eyes the colour of an unsettled ocean. 

Of course he would drink tea in the morning. Just another thing for Bucky to add to the ever-growing list of their differences.

“Morning,” Steve says, observing him like a wild animal that might bolt at any second.

After last night, Bucky can’t really blame him.

“You um, left pretty suddenly last night. Is everything ok?”

He looks so concerned that for all Bucky’s disappointed by the way things have gone, it’s also impossible to be angry at him. He sighs. “Yeah, sorry about that. I guess I was just tired and feeling a long way from home.”

It’s the lamest excuse ever, but it’s the best he can muster right now.

“Okay,” Steve says, sounding like he doesn’t buy it at all. 

At least he’s enough of a gentleman not to inquire further though. It makes Bucky feel even more like shit, because really, none of this is Steve’s fault. He’s been a perfect host and Bucky’s issues are entirely of his own making. It’s not like this is the first time he’s fallen for a straight guy. Just that he’d almost convinced himself Steve wasn’t.

He tries to inject a little more enthusiasm into his voice. “So what’s on the agenda for today?”

Steve cups his hands around his mug. “I did some thinking about our plan last night. How we talked about going tramping around Tongariro National Park—” He stops mid-sentence, smiling warmly at Bucky. “Sorry… _hiking_.”

Every time Steve says tramping instead of hiking—which he does by default—it makes Bucky want to snicker. The first time he said it, Bucky thought he was suggesting that all New Zealanders wandered around the hills like vagrants or something. At least until he clarified otherwise. Although… from some of the stories Steve tells, it sounds like it might not be entirely untrue. 

“If that’s the best way to see Mount Doom, I’d like to.”

“Yeah, it definitely is. But it’s also very exposed alpine terrain. You can’t just walk up it in jandals on a whim. People die every year from going up there unprepared.”

Already, Bucky finds himself doing the translation in his head. _Jandals—flip flops._

“I wasn’t planning on wearing flip flops. I’ve got running shoes.”

Steve makes a face. “You should really walk in something with a bit more ankle support. Not to mention taking some decent wet weather gear and a pack with us.”

“This is sounding like a list of problems,” Bucky says, re-purposing one of Pierce’s all-time favourite lines. One that’s always aggravated the hell out of him. “What’s the solution?”

It doesn’t seem to bother Steve, though. He just runs a thoughtful hand through his hair. “I rang a friend of mine last night. The one I’m doing the Pork Pie run with next year actually. I think he’d be about your size and he’s happy to lend us his gear. We just have to pick it up from Gisborne.”

“Where’s that?” Bucky asks, automatically reaching for his phone and typing the name into the search bar. Typically, he gets the spelling wrong, but Google quickly corrects that and spits him into the results.

The photos show an unremarkable looking city nestled between rolling hills and a white sand beach. Other shots depict rows of grapevines, or long deserted stretches of coastline. All in all, it looks remarkably similar to the places they’ve visited already. And apparently, it’s a little over four hours drive away.

“It’s on the East Coast,” Steve says, sipping at his tea. “A bit out of the way, but I still think it’s the best way to get the gear you need without actually buying it.”

Tactfully, Bucky decides not to mention that buying it probably isn’t an issue for him. Chances are his parents aren’t so angry they’ll cut him off if he spends all his savings and can’t afford to make rent next month. But he also doesn’t want to come across as a pretentious asshole. Especially since Steve seems like exactly the sensible kind of person who wouldn’t buy a bunch of things he’d never use again, or that wouldn’t fit in his suitcase home.

In fact, if Steve is representative of New Zealanders in general, there’s a country-wide propensity towards doing things on the cheap, and never replacing items that are still semi-fit for purpose—like Steve’s ute—until they’re truly on their last legs. It’s an attitude that would probably give Bucky’s keeping-up-with-the-Joneses parents a heart attack.

Most likely why Bucky’s never been known for his good sense with money.

But since Steve’s gone to all the trouble of organising it, he figures he should probably make an exception. “Are we going today?” he asks, swallowing the last dregs of his coffee, ready to walk straight out the door.

It’s not that he’s in that much of a hurry to ditch Steve. Things _are_ a lot less awkward than he expected them to be. But it’s also not fair to impose on Steve’s hospitality, knowing that Bucky wants something more than just a road-trip buddy, and Steve doesn’t. It feels dishonest somehow, using him like that.

Bucky doesn’t know what else he’ll do. Go back to being driven crazy by Nat and Clint in the confines of the motorhome probably. But at least he won’t be embarrassing himself, hoping for something that’ll never happen.

Steve shakes his head. “Sam’s working until later this week. He said he should be able to finish early on Thursday and take Friday off so we can spend the weekend there. But that still gives us a few days to kill.”

Bucky almost groans. Great. More time in close proximity with Steve. Just what he needs. It’s sweet torture as it is. But it seems like it’s already too late to back out now.

“It’s only Sunday though,” he says, dreading the wait. “What do we do until then?”

Steve looks upbeat though. If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d even say there was a concerning gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Well, I have some ideas….”

Steve’s ideas involve an hour and a half drive back to the west. Into a landscape of jagged limestone escarpments that rise, stark and sheer, from lush grassy fields—like something straight out of Middle Earth. It’s dark and moody, all the more so for the sheeting rain and low clouds that hang over the hills.

While Steve drives, Bucky catches up on his messages. Most notably, a reply from Becca to his frustrated contact from last night.

> Becca: What do you mean, a difference in sexual orientation?

She sounds cautious. As though she knows this is something Bucky will be touchy over. There’s no avoiding it though. Like ripping off a bandage, he’s found it’s best to be open with Becca from the get go. She always figures things out eventually, with or without his help. He huffs a quiet sigh.

> Bucky: I mean he’s straight. Of course, I only found out after I’d agreed to travel the whole length of the country with him. Now I have to find an excuse not to.

He sinks lower in the seat, resting his head against the glass of the window and watching the world pass by. For all that Steve’s ute is old, in a way that almost put Bucky off at first, he’s since been able to find the perfect combination of positioning and recline to make its uninspiring utilitarian design as comfortable as possible. Not that anyone’s going to be giving its worn out nineties foam seats an award for ergonomics any time soon.

His phone buzzes.

> Becca: Wait… he agreed to travel the whole country with you? Clearly, he’s a dumbass…

That causes Bucky a spike of irritation.

> Bucky: Shut up…

It seems he’s caught Becca at a rare moment of time zone crossover. It must be what—five or six o’clock in New York right now? The perfect time for her to have just finished work. Or at least be free enough to hold his hopeless love life and poor choices over him.

> Becca: How do you know he’s straight anyway?

Bucky rolls his eyes, typing furiously.

> Bucky: He mentioned a past girlfriend. It sounded serious.
> 
> Becca: That’s it?
> 
> Bucky: Well, yeah.
> 
> Becca: Ok, I take it back. You clearly deserve each other.

Bucky scowls.

> Bucky: What’s that supposed to mean!?
> 
> Becca: Just that you should probably read more into the fact he’s agreed to drive a complete stranger the length of the country.
> 
> Bucky: So he’s friendly. Everyone here is.

There’s a short pause during which the appearance and disappearance of ellipses indicates Becca must have typed and re-typed her message several times.

> Becca: Or, he’s bi.

The suggestion hits Bucky like a landslide. He reads her message once. Then, reads it again. Then puts his phone down in his lap. Rain sheets over the windshield in criss-crossing trails, blurring the landscape outside. He chances a look across at Steve. Steve—who smiles at him, genuine and open, in a way that makes Bucky’s heart skip a literal beat.

Holy shit.

He’s an idiot.

Not that he particularly thinks Becca’s right or wrong—Steve’s just not that easy to read. But her suggestion is, technically speaking, possible. There are enough times when Steve’s made an off-hand comment, or looked at Bucky in a certain way, to make him wonder. After all, that’s what convinced him to get in Steve’s car in the first place. Not that he wants to get his hopes up or anything…

He grabs his phone again.

> Bucky: Why are you like this?
> 
> Becca: Like what… right?
> 
> Bucky: You don’t know you are.
> 
> Becca: I’ll bet I am.

Bucky snorts. It’s typical of her to be so damn intractable. And as much as he really, really hopes she’s right, he also kind of wants her to be wrong. Just for once.

> Bucky: Fine, what’s it worth to you?
> 
> Becca: If I’m right, you have to do next year’s Christmas shopping for Mom and Dad.

Bucky groans. It’s the duty neither of them ever wants to be saddled with. What do you get for the two people who already have everything?

> Bucky: Agreed.
> 
> Becca: I’m going to enjoy this. Maybe even as much as you do 😉

As if her meaning wasn’t clear enough without the emoji... Bucky debates how to respond. With a middle finger maybe.

“Who’re you chatting to?” Steve asks, typically oblivious.

Bucky’s face burns hot. He types a rude reply then slams his phone down into his lap. Jesus. Does he look as embarrassed as he feels right now? “My sister,” he says, although it comes out as high-pitched and strangled sounding as a teenager trying to hide porn from their parents. He hasn’t felt this put on the spot since high-school. It’s pathetic.

“Oh, and how is she?” Steve asks politely, like he somehow hasn’t noticed.

If it were possible to combust in-situ, Bucky would be making a pretty good effort of it right now. He turns to face the cool glass of the window. “Oh you know… she’s great.”

“Hmmm…” Steve says.

The tone sounds innocent enough, but there’s a slight upward curve to his lips that suggests there’s more he’s not saying. Though whether it’s good or bad for Bucky remains to be seen. Because Steve, as ever, doesn’t give anything away.

“How are you with water and enclosed spaces?” he asks suddenly.

Confusion breaks Bucky from his self-flagellation. “Like… individually, or both at the same time?”

Steve shrugs. “Bit of both.”

Bucky frowns. “Umm… okay I guess?”

“Cool.”

It turns out Bucky is very not okay with water and enclosed spaces. Not in the sense they’re applied in this country anyway.

New Zealanders have—for reasons not well understood by the sane population of the rest of the world—invented a sport they euphemistically dub “black water rafting.”

Rafts, as Bucky soon learns, have nothing to do with it.

Instead, he finds himself zipped into a wetsuit, strapped into a hard-helmet and handed an inflated black rubber doughnut that looks suspiciously like some sort of used car tyre. His unease only increases after the guide explains that that is, in fact, exactly what it is—an inner tube that will be the only thing keeping him afloat in the extensive underground cave network they’re going to be traversing, waterfalls and all.

He gulps.

For many of the same reasons he’s never liked flying, this also sounds like an exceptionally bad idea. So bad, Bucky briefly debates messaging Becca and asking her to pass on his final goodbyes to their parents.

Steve meanwhile, seems completely at ease. “You alright?” he asks, his damnably blue eyes full of sincerity.

Bucky nods, gripping the rubber tube extra tight under his arm. “Uh huh. Fine.”

Obviously aiming to be reassuring, Steve’s hand settles onto his shoulder, warm even through the wetsuit. “It’s actually a lot of fun. I promise. You don’t have to worry.”

The contact sends lightning skipping through Bucky’s frayed nerves, crackling and raw. His skin buzzes with it.

“I’m not worried!” he snaps, caught off guard.

“Oh… I just thought…” Steve bites his lip, quickly withdrawing his hand.

It makes Bucky want to kick himself. Instead, he settles for scowling at his feet. Self-sabotage—that’s what they call this, right?

They practice jumping off a jetty into a forest-shrouded river, learning how not to lose their tubes before taking a quick hike to the cave’s entrance. Then it’s headlamps on, and a steep descent into a narrow claustrophobic cavern with water gushing through its countless tight twists and turns. It will take them eighty metres below ground—roughly 260 feet—the guide explains.

Bucky swallows. It might as well be Moria. The only upside is that it looks far too wet to be home to any Balrogs.

With Steve not far behind him, they descend into the dark.

The first part actually isn’t too bad. The water is cold, but it’s only waist-high, and the wetsuit keeps Bucky comfortably warm. But the deeper they go, the colder the stale air gets. The walls close in, and the water races over increasingly higher ledges which they have to jump off. In-between, they float down the rushing river, pushing off rock walls and squeezing through tiny gaps.

It only feels like Moria now inasmuch as it’s pitch black and the sort of place you could get lost in and never come out of.

Eventually though, the cave leads to a waterfall high enough to make Bucky’s stomach churn, all the worse for the angry white whirlpool at the bottom. Of course, Steve jumps off without a second thought, emerging from the maelstrom with a huge, pleased grin. But Bucky stands at the top, gazing down for so long the drop begins to look like something far more akin to the Niagara Falls.

“Come on,” Steve calls out in an encouraging tone.

Everyone else in the group has already made the jump, so it’s just Bucky left standing at the top, awkwardly holding up progress.

“I think I might just… not,” he says, edging closer and trying not to puke at the thought of falling that far.

Why is it that Bucky can stand up to his scary-as-hell boss and dump his asshole ex-boyfriend, but jumping off a six foot ledge is too much to ask?

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” the guide calls out helpfully, before adding with typical New Zealand cheer, “And it’s the only way out.”

Because _that_ makes the whole situation better…

There’s a scrabbling noise in the dark, then Steve appears next to Bucky, inner tube grasped under one arm. Bucky peers down at the ledge he’s just clambered up from. If Steve can get up it, surely he can get down it…

“Hey…” Steve’s voice is soft. “You okay?”

Sure, under normal circumstances, Bucky might be the king of sassy replies. But not when he’s 260 feet underground in a foreign country, facing almost certain death.

“No?” he says, voice wavering.

Expression serious, Steve digests this. Probably wondering how Bucky can be so pathetic. Regardless, he holds out his spare hand, voice sickeningly sincere when he says, “Trust me?”

Bucky stares at it like he’s offering a live grenade.

“I promise I don’t bite.”

Well… shit.

Holding his breath, Bucky slips his hand into Steve’s. It’s gratifyingly warm and rough with callouses. A hint of a smile quirking the corners of his mouth, Steve tightens his fingers around Bucky’s. He gives them a gentle reassuring squeeze.

“When I say jump, jump. Okay?”

Heart racing, Bucky nods.

“Three… two… one…”

The cave flashes by. Cold water rushes up to greet them. Bucky finds himself submerged, swallowed by frigid dark silence. Somehow, he loses his grip on his tube. He flails after it, quickly giving up when it becomes apparent catching it is an impossible task. It feels like half a lifetime passes, even though it’s really only a few seconds.

But the spark of warmth in his palm never falters.

It lifts him clear of the maelstrom, a warm arm sliding around his back as Steve treads water for them both. Their sides are mashed together uncomfortably and Steve’s dishevelled hair falls between his eyes. Regardless, he still takes Bucky’s breath away. It requires every ounce of self-control he has, and then some, not to reach out and brush the beads of water from Steve’s beard, or trace his fingertips along the line of Steve’s jaw.

“See? I knew you could do it,” Steve grins, flicking his hair back beneath his helmet.

He looks proud as punch—God knows why—even though Bucky’s such an embarrassment.

It gives Bucky’s stomach butterflies all over again. “I think I lost my tube…” he says, grasping for any excuse to look away from Steve’s goddamn attractive face. Lest he give into temptation and make even more of an ass of himself. Or worse, lose his bet to Becca in under a day.

“You can have mine,” Steve says, disentangling himself and slipping it into Bucky’s flailing arms before he can argue. He retrieves Bucky’s tube, then returns to his side. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, wishing his racing heart would let up already.

They float down the rest of the underground river in silence, side by side. The memory of Steve’s hand in his lingers, never far from Bucky’s mind. He wonders if Steve feels it too. But if he does, he doesn’t give any sign of it. 

When they do finally emerge into blinding daylight, it feels a bit like the Fellowship’s escape from Moria—albeit without the loss of any party members along the way. But Bucky does feel changed by the experience. By the memory of Steve’s reassuring fingers wrapped warmly around his own.

The shower and hot chocolate that follow are all the more welcome for the way the rain is still falling, draping itself across the rugged landscape like a misty silk gown.

And Steve’s already planned their next activity. 

“ _Another_ cave?” Bucky asks, shooting him the kind of look that asks if he’s truly lost his mind. “What’s with the sudden cave obsession?”

“Hey.” Steve holds up his hands defensively. “This one’s really worth it, I promise. And you don’t even have to get your feet wet!”

“Ugh, okay…” Bucky says, rolling his eyes in proper dramatic fashion.

Steve just laughs. “Trust me, New Yorker.”

And damn him, but Bucky does. He hasn’t been wrong so far.

Nor is he this time, as it turns out.

They descend into a surreal crystalline world, sculpted by water and time. Hundreds upon hundreds of dripping stalactites cling to the roof of a winding passage, with stalagmites that rise up from the floor to match, almost touching in some places. The air is cold, stale, and damp with moisture. Water glistens down walls and collects in small reflective pools on worn ledges.

Everything is softly lit, yielding new wonders at every turn. Glittering limestone formations that take every shape imaginable; from delicate fronds resembling the grow-your-own-crystal science kits of Bucky’s youth, to others shaped like brains, and yet more that drip down the walls like icing down the edges of a cake. Bucky longs to touch them, but it’s not allowed. Contact with human skin can cause damage.

The path they follow leads them through an underground cavern which towers as high as the interior of a cathedral, with the acoustics to match. Then, for the final part of the journey, they climb aboard dinghy-sized boats, floating along an underground stream into an area known as “The Grotto.”

“Now remember, you have to be quiet,” the guide says. “Otherwise they won’t show themselves.”

Bucky nudges Steve. “What won’t show?” he asks, deeply suspicious.

Steve bumps his shoulder gently against Bucky’s. With the light around them fading as the boat drifts further downriver, it’s impossible to make out his face. But his breath ghosts across Bucky’s ear, raising goose pimples on the nape of his neck when he whispers, “Wait and see…”

Bucky shivers. As his eyes begin to adjust, he realises there’s light ahead of them—ghostly blue, like a gas flame, emanating from… the ceiling? As they get closer, the glow resolves itself into thousands of tiny pinpricks of light, as though a sky of glittering stars has been scattered across every inch of the low hanging roof. Almost close enough for Bucky to reach out and touch.

He gazes up in wonder. “Oh _wow_ ….”

“Glowworms!” Steve whispers.

It’s beyond magical. Whimsical, ethereal and kind of…. romantic, actually. Which Steve had to know before he decided to bring Bucky here—

As hard as it is to look away from the view, Bucky does, and oh—it’s _so_ worth it. Because Steve’s not looking at the glowworms at all. His gaze is fixed on Bucky, mouth curved up with a funny little smile that matches the longing in his eyes. It’s just the right kind of wistful to snatch the breath from Bucky’s lungs, the words from his tongue, and the ground from beneath his feet. So to speak—with them being in a boat an all. There’s an undeniable ‘ _I’d follow you into hell if you asked me to’_ quality to it that sets his heart racing. That makes him want to lean over and take Steve’s hand again, closing the distance between them until a kiss seems almost inevitable...

But as soon as he sees it, it’s gone. Steve turns back to the spectacle, expression unreadable again. 

It leaves Bucky to wonder if what he saw ever truly existed at all, or whether it was just a figment of his imagination. Merely wishful thinking. Because at the end of their tour, when they emerge blinking into the light for the second time that day, Steve’s back to his usual arm-length friendly self.

Which is firmly where he stays for the following days, as they continue their road trip across the country to somewhere called Rotorua.

Small towns in New Zealand are unique, to say the least. They all share a charming blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of quality, where getting from one end to the other involves a temporary speed reduction to an agonising crawl, whilst transiting the entire two minutes from entry to exit. This happens probably once every fifteen minutes to half hour, and Steve seems to take the interruption to their progress completely for granted. New Zealanders, apparently, have never heard of a bypass.

In any case, it provides ample time for Bucky to get a feel for the country. The shops are an eclectic collection of mismatched facades and faded awnings, most of which look like they had their heyday sometime in the late seventies, and have had spare parts tacked on ever since. Small cafés, farm supply stores, souvenir shops, art studios. There are few, if any, chain brands, and no rhyme or reason to what they sell or where they sell it.

In a way, it’s reminiscent of small town America. Except nobody here seems to have any desire to build bigger or better. Things just are what they are. It’s the same kind of easy acceptance Bucky sees in Steve. A lack of material desire completely unfamiliar to the rat race of back home. There, bigger and better built the city, so if you’re stationary you might as well be going backwards.

But here, no one thinks anything of going to the shops in their flip flops and a ratty old sweater. Or even, in one case Bucky saw, with completely bare feet. As if New Zealanders are actual hobbits. No one back home would ever be caught dead doing that, if only because they’d probably catch some horrific new disease from the street dirt…

In general, the whole country is just strange, quirky, and unmistakeably not like home. If New York is a golden child, New Zealand is more like the odd younger sibling everyone forgot. As though, because they know they’ll never be the biggest or best, they’ve decided to forgo all that pretentiousness in favour of just being their weird selves.

It’s kind of liberating, Bucky decides. Having no one ask him if he’s bought the latest coat of the season, or tried some new fad restaurant yet.

Idly, he grabs another candy from the centre console of the ute and stuffs it in his mouth. Something with a chewy yellow inside covered in chocolate. “What are these again?” he asks, holding up another one for Steve to inspect.

“That’s a Pineapple Lump,” Steve says. “The other ones with the chocolate middle and red coating are Jaffas.”

“I thought you said Jaffa was a rude name for people from Auckland?” 

“Different Jaffa,” Steve says, looking amused. “One more f in the lolly.”

“Oh.” Bucky pops one in his mouth and rolls it around, dissolving the hard candy coating until it softens and cracks. It tastes vaguely like oranges. “Sounds kind of like Jersey and New York. Both of us hate each other.”

“Why?” Steve asks, holding out his hand, palm upwards.

Bucky places a Pineapple Lump on it, allowing Steve to keep his eyes on the road. It’s an unspoken ritual they’ve already settled into during their short time together. He shrugs, dismissive. “They say New Yorkers are loud and rude, but really, I think they’re just jealous our city’s better. And that we know it.”

Steve laughs. “Yup. That sounds exactly like something an Aucklander would say.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at his blunt honesty. It’s reassuring to know that even half a world apart, the fundamentals of big city rivalry remain the same. “I guess you’ve got your work cut out for you, convincing a city-boy the rest of your country has anything to recommend it then,” he says.

“Hey, I’m doing my best,” Steve objects, obviously insincere. “You’re still not convinced?”

Bucky smiles. It’s become a running joke between them—Steve asking, Bucky refuting. He tips his head, trying to look unsure. “Well… the glowworms the other day were pretty cool, but you should see the Christmas lights in New York…”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh sure.”

But the way he smiles makes Bucky’s insides feel all funny again.

It’s sweet torture, being around him like this. The two of them have such an easy camaraderie sometimes it’s hard for Bucky to remember he’s supposed to have doubts about sticking around at all. Moments when he thinks that even if he can’t get into bed with Steve, he’d still make a really good friend. The kind you could always laugh with, but who’d literally move mountains if you ever needed him to.

It’s been too long since Bucky’s met anyone like that, platonically or otherwise.

He checks his phone. There are several messages from Clint, most insinuating things that definitely aren’t happening. Even if Bucky wishes they were. Another from his mom, asking when he’s due home, which Bucky is definitely going to ignore. And one from Becca saying she ran into Brock, and lamenting what an insufferable asshole he is. Bucky replies to that one, sending her his sympathies before tucking his phone away.

They’re travelling east across the flat plains around Matamata again, through a small town with two eye-catching buildings fashioned to look like a huge sheep and dog. Bucky stares out the window in horror as they pass. Combined with the architectural monstrosity that was the giant soda bottle, it’s almost as though New Zealand has some weird obsession with celebrating horrifically tacky architecture. 

Eventually the road leaves the plains altogether, climbing into a pine forest. From the way the trees are all arranged in neat little rows, equally spaced and of matching size, it’s obviously cultivated. The many logging trucks grinding slowly past reinforce that impression too. Unfortunately, it makes for dull scenery. But after a while, they round a bend and an offensive sulphurous stench invades the car. Bucky gags. He tries not to look too obviously at Steve, as though implying blame. But Steve’s already looking back at him, laughing hard enough to cry.

“What?” Bucky hisses.

Steve wipes a tear from his eye. “Welcome to Rotorua.”

Apparently it’s something every New Zealander knows, that Rotorua—a small city built on the shores of an active volcanic caldera—smells perpetually like rotten eggs. To a greater or lesser degree depending on which direction the wind is blowing, but by all accounts, the fragrance is never entirely absent. The city steams, rising out of boiling pools and bubbling mud, with boardwalks covering areas of uneven ground liable to give way and land you—literally—in hot water.

It’s packed with tourists, there to experience the unique geological features and ubiquitous Māori meal and show experiences on offer. Bucky even manages to drag Steve along to one, despite his initial protests about it being too “touristy.” But Bucky enjoys it, and that seems to be enough to satisfy Steve it was time and money well spent.

They visit a place reminiscent of Yellowstone, only smaller. There’s an enormous scalding hot pool, resplendent with brightly coloured mineral deposits around its edges, and a geyser that erupts from the ground with a hiss and a roar. But it’s undoubtedly the bubbling mud Bucky likes best. Watching the swell and burst of the silky goop. The way it forms delicate rings as bubble after bubble collapses in on itself. The satisfying pop and slap it makes when it does. It’s almost hypnotic.

That evening, they walk along the shore of the city’s lake after standing on line forever at what looks like the most popular ice cream shop in the whole place. Bucky has a waffle cone with all the trappings, including chocolate dip and sprinkled nuts, while Steve’s gone back to basics with a single scoop of hokey pokey.

A light breeze blows off the water, wafting clouds of sulphurous steam through the bushy scrubland. Thankfully, after a couple of days here, Bucky has to admit the smell doesn’t bother him as much as it did. The path crunches beneath his feet, off-white and chalky as it weaves alongside the lake, around various thermal features.

“What’s New York like?” Steve asks, doing things to his ice cream with his tongue that make Bucky wish he could take its place.

“It’s loud and crowded and busy, I guess,” Bucky says, struggling to find the right words to convey his fondness for his home to someone who’s never been there. “It’s eight million people talking over each other at once, trying to do different things at the same time. But I love that about it. How there’s always something happening. No matter what day of the week it is, you can always go out on the town. I’m not sure if people who aren’t from there understand... They just think it’s dirty and everyone is rude.”

Steve hums. “Whenever I think of New York, I always think of hot dogs. From those funny little stands you see in the movies.”

 _Ugh._ Bucky looks at him with exaggerated horror. “Oh Steve, no…”

“What?”

“You never eat the dirty water dogs! Not unless you enjoy your food rubbery with a side chance of listeria…”

Steve frowns. “Really?”

Nodding, Bucky licks his ice cream officiously, glad to finally be the source of expert knowledge on _something_. “If you want cheap food that’s actually good, dollar pizza is where it’s at.”

“You can buy whole pizzas for a dollar?” Steve’s eyes widen.

It’s delightfully innocent, in a way that makes Bucky smile. “Not the whole pie...” he corrects. “Restaurants sell them by the slice, and you roll them up and eat them before they go cold. Usually on the sidewalk outside.”

“Huh…” Steve murmurs, looking astonished at the idea. “What’s your favourite type of pizza, then?”

“White pizza,” Bucky replies without hesitation.

“White pizza?”

“You know… the one that’s mostly cheese with no tomato sauce?”

From the way Steve shakes his head, it seems like Bucky might as well have asked for directions to Antarctica.

“Um… I guess we sometimes have four-cheese pizzas here?” Steve offers, looking lost. “But I’m not sure it’s the same thing.”

Bucky—self-appointed pizza expert that he is—shakes his head. “It isn’t. Real white pizza is made with ricotta and mozzarella, and maybe some other cheeses or herbs too, depending on the restaurant. But that combination of oily toppings on a hot crispy base… it’s perfection.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Steve says, smiling warmly at his enthusiasm.

Sidestepping a tree root growing haphazardly from the middle of the path, Bucky views him with curiosity. “What would you eat over here, then, if you were going out for a night on the town?” 

For some reason, that makes Steve chuckle. “It’s been a while since I’ve done that,” he says. “But probably doner kebabs? There was this one place in Auckland, on K’ Road, that felt like it was open all hours. I went there after a few decent all-nighters in uni.”

Bucky nods sagely. “Hm, that’s the same then.”

“Kebabs are a safe food option in New York?”

“Well, we mostly call them gyros. But they’re pretty similar. So generally, yeah.”

They walk in silence for a bit, beside water milky with sulphur. It’s comforting to know not everything is different here. That some drunk foods are universal. Bucky finishes the last of his ice cream and stuffs the napkin that came with it in his pocket.

“You know something you have to try while you’re over here?” Steve says suddenly.

“What?”

“Actual pies.”

“What do you mean, ‘actual pies’?” Bucky asks, casting him some serious side-eye.

“As in… meat pies,” Steve clarifies. “Not those sweet things you Americans eat.”

Frowning at Steve’s sweeping generalisations about American culture, Bucky glances suspiciously at a steaming patch of dirt, careful to keep his feet to the marked track. No wonder there are so many signs asking people not to wander off the path. The ground around here does look precariously unstable.

“Don’t you have sweet pies here?” he asks, horrified at the thought.

“Of course we do,” Steve says. “They’re just far less popular than the savoury ones.”

“You realise it’s not impossible to get a meat pie in the States, right?” Bucky snorts dismissively. “You can get pot pie almost anywhere.”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s not the same." He sounds disappointed, but in an amused kind of way. “It has to be single serve flaky pastry from a bakery or service station, eaten straight out of a paper bag on the go. Like your New York pizza.”

Bucky scoffs. No savoury pie could ever hope to reach the lofty heights of cuisine that his beloved pizza does. But this is sounding awfully like another one of those cultural difference things they’re just going to have to agree to disagree on. Much like sandwich spreads.

“What’s the best type of pie, in your expert opinion?” he asks.

Steve doesn’t skip a beat. “Steak and cheese.”

And okay… that actually does sound pretty good. Steak and cheese, two things Bucky loves, all wrapped up in hot flaky pastry. Maybe he wouldn’t mind trying one, at least. “Okay, I agree. While I’m here, I’ll try one of your meat pies,” he offers charitably.

Steve nods. “Just remember,” he says, expression deadly serious. “You must always blow on the pie.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. It feels like he’s missing something important. “Why?”

That makes Steve smile. “Local joke… Don’t worry about it.”

It’s tempting to roll his eyes, but an equal part of Bucky wants to return the smile. Even if Steve’s sense of humour is terrible—which it is—there’s something endearing about just how awful it is. It’s genuine, much like Steve himself.

Bucky smiles. “Sure. Blow on the pie. Got it.”

They walk back to the ute, chatting about nothing in particular. As the sun sets it turns the sky a soft pastel pink, dappled with feathery high clouds. At the main road, Bucky checks carefully left for traffic before stepping out onto the asphalt. 

“Whoa, Buck!” Steve exclaims, quickly grabbing the back of his shirt and yanking him away.

A car rushes past, barely more than two feet away. Yelping with surprise, Bucky trips. He falls backward, flailing for balance with all the grace of a penguin walking on land. 

Strong arms catch him, pulling him securely against a rock-hard chest.

Head spinning, Bucky gulps for air. Between the feel of Steve’s arms corded around his middle, his warm inviting scent filling Bucky’s senses, and the way he just shortened what’s already a nickname into something entirely unique—Bucky’s pretty sure he’s not in possession of all his faculties anymore. 

“You alright?” Steve asks, his voice a low reassuring rumble near Bucky’s ear. He spins Bucky to face him, keeping gentle hold of his shoulders as though worried he might collapse at any moment.

A weird noise escapes Bucky’s throat. He presumes it’s meant to resemble a reply, but his brain doesn’t seem to have caught up enough to supply any words to go with it. Every part of him feels weak and shaky, heart pounding a million miles an hour like he’s just run a marathon…

As though sensing it, Steve folds him into a warm hug. Burying his face deep in Steve’s shirt, Bucky exhales against the delicate line of his collarbone, feeling something within him unravel a little. It’s so nice he doesn’t even mind when Steve clicks his tongue, sounding vaguely reminiscent of a reprimanding parent as he says, “Jesus Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack! You’ve gotta look the other way before you cross over here, huh?”

It might as well go straight in one ear and out the other. Fuck the fundamentals of road safety when Bucky can’t even think straight. Not with every inch of Steve’s toned body pressed against his, fuel on the fire of Bucky’s most intimate fantasies. For one insane second, he almost forgets himself enough to press his mouth against the exposed skin of Steve’s neck in a grateful kiss.

Then, the cogs start turning again.

“Did you call me Buck?” he mumbles into Steve’s chest.

Pulling back far enough to see Bucky’s expression, Steve’s hesitation betrays unease. “Uh, I think so? Is that a problem?”

There’s a small furrow between the angle of his eyebrows, and it looks so at home there Bucky laughs. He longs to run his fingers over it. To smooth away Steve’s worry.

“No. I like it.”

“Oh.”

Steve’s eyes are beautiful and sincere, and Bucky can’t tear himself away from them. He could lose himself in them forever. The way they change from steel grey, to seafoam blue, to flecked kelp around the irises. The contrast they form to his soft pink mouth, with the full lower lip Bucky can so vividly imagine sucking on if they kissed…

_Fuck..._

Face burning in a way it normally never does, he disentangles himself from Steve. Before he can do anything he might regret. Steve steps briskly back too, putting a safe amount of distance between them.

“So,” Bucky says, deliberately too-loud. “Gisborne tomorrow?”

As changes of topic go, it’s not exactly subtle. But maybe he and Steve are just invested in the same delusion, because it’s not like Steve calls him on it either.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, swallowing. “Gisborne tomorrow.”

Bucky’s mouth feels dry. The idea of meeting one of Steve’s actual friends makes him nervous. From everything Steve’s said, he values Sam’s opinion pretty highly. Which means there’s probably no faster route to things being over before they’ve even begun, than by making a bad impression on him.

God Bucky hopes that’s not how this goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * For the record - New Zealand absolutely does have an obsession with celebrating horrifically tacky architecture. It's a point of national pride, most often expressed in our construction of "big things" (large novelty statues found in small towns, the subject of which usually relates somehow to the local area or industry). A list can be found [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_New_Zealand%27s_big_things).
>   * A "Jaffa" is a lolly. On the other hand, "JAFA" is a rude nickname for Aucklanders. If you're from outside of Auckland, it means "Just Another Fucking Aucklander." If you happen to be from Auckland, it makes you "Just Another Friendly Aucklander."
> 



	8. Like Silt Beneath the Ocean's Surface

Bucky stretches his legs as far as the space in the ute will allow, feeling the burn from his and Steve’s run this morning. It’s quickly become his favourite part of the day: getting up not long after sunrise, running through whatever local area they’re camping in, and listening to the raucous dawn chorus along the way.

It’s not like Bucky’s ever been a morning person out of anything other than necessity, but being around Steve makes it worth it. They usually run for an hour or so, with Steve answering any questions Bucky has about the country. Like why there are so many birds—most of them native and most of them threatened by the introduction of foreign mammals like stoats, rats, and cats. There are even offshore islands used as pest-free sanctuaries, complete with special breeding programs to try and save them.

At Bucky’s request, Steve identifies the loud brash birds he saw in Kaitaia as tūī. They’re ubiquitous throughout the country, often joined by warbling green bellbirds who leap energetically from branch to branch, and gregarious fantails who flit about catching bugs on the wing. It certainly makes for a more inspiring ambience than running at the gym. Plus, the view is better.

Not that Bucky only goes to ogle Steve, but that’s certainly part of the appeal. He’s surprisingly fast for such a solidly built guy. Not as fast as Bucky maybe, but with a steady kind of endurance that suggests he’d happily run over mountain ranges without pausing to catch his breath. And when Bucky slips up and voices his admiration for it, Steve just grins and offers a single word answer—“Rugby.”

Though what rugby has to do with it, Bucky doesn’t know. Apart from practically being a religion over here.

Beside him, in the driver’s seat, Steve shifts. Bucky doesn’t need to turn his head to know he’s being watched. It’s something Steve’s been doing a lot since they began the drive to Gisborne.

“You’re being very quiet today,” Steve says, the hesitation in his voice the only suggestion of uncertainty.

“Am I?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah. I don’t think you’ve talked this little since you thought I was going to murder you just down the road from Cape Reinga.” He purses his lips. “Actually, I think you might’ve talked more then.”

Bucky sighs. He supposes he is being a little quiet. But then… there is a lot on his mind. “Sorry. Just a little preoccupied I guess.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” Steve asks, giving him a chest-achingly sincere look. Like it personally matters to him whether Bucky is a hundred percent happy on any given day.

It’s impossible not to smile at it, even if the sentiment doesn’t alleviate the unease churning in Bucky’s stomach. But he’s not about to air his misgivings about meeting Steve’s friend, directly to Steve himself.

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

The road is narrow and winding as it descends the hills into Gisborne. It’s pretty standard for New Zealand—one lane in each direction, numerous blind corners, and steep drop-offs protected by nothing more than a slender metal barrier rail, all taken at a hundred kilometre per hour speed limit. It’s a far cry from the freeways of L.A., or even the New Jersey Turnpike, that’s for sure.

Steve clears his throat. “So, I’ve been thinking…” he begins.

“That’s dangerous,” Bucky returns, dry with sarcasm.

It’s mostly automatic at this point, but still earns him a chuckle regardless.

“Thanks. Glad you think so highly me.”

Luckily, by now, Bucky’s learnt that Steve’s all but impossible to offend. In fact, he almost seems to enjoy making jokes at his own expense. It’s something he calls ‘self-deprecating’ humour, and by all accounts, along with bone-dry delivery and occasional dark sarcasm, it forms the backbone of most of New Zealand’s jokes.

“So anyway,” Steve says, turning on the wipers as another light shower of rain arrives. “I was thinking maybe you could do some of the driving on this trip too. I mean… if that works for you? It might break up some of the longer days. Make them more interesting.”

Bucky swallows. Him… drive on these death-trap roads? Sure, he does technically have a license, but it’s not like he’s used it in years. Who the hell owns a car in New York anyway? Why bother when public transport will get you anywhere you want to go, with far less potential for bodily harm? Until some idiot yells ‘showtime’ on the subway anyway…

“Bucky?”

“I don’t drive stick,” he blurts out, like an idiot. As though that’s the biggest problem they’re facing here.

Steve glances at the offending part of the vehicle. Then back at Bucky. “I mean… I could teach you. And the clutch is so worn on this thing, I doubt it’ll be a problem anyway.”

Internally, Bucky cringes. This is exactly the sort of thing he always had Brock do, if they ever had to drive anywhere.

“I guess?” he says. “I probably could…”

It must come out sounding more confident than he feels, because Steve seems to take it for agreement. Enthusiasm even.

“Great!” He looks sickeningly excited by the prospect. “I’ll teach you all the road rules and stuff. I’m sure they’re probably different in the States…”

Jesus Christ, what has Bucky done? Agreeing to drive in a foreign country—the thought alone is terrifying. Like volunteering to carry an all-powerful ring into Mordor. And not that Bucky’s dad was ever comparable to Sauron, but he might as well have been in the car. Already Bucky can hear his voice in the passenger seat all over again, yelling not to take the corners so fast, or brake so hard. This had better not turn out the same way…

He leans his head against the window, supressing a groan. At least there’s now something worse than meeting Sam to distract him.

The road leaves the hills, flattening as it draws closer to the coast. It meanders through valleys of native forest, to neat settled farmland, to cultivated vineyards, and finally, into the city itself. There, rain showers chase each other across a sweeping bay almost as fast as the clouds can bring them. Outside, a cool wind bends the trees away from the ocean. It’s not exactly the sunny beach weather Steve claims Gisborne is known for.

Not that Bucky’s paying much attention right now. His stomach feels like it’s working itself into knots. What is Steve going to tell Sam about the random American hitchhiker he’s picked up? What impression will Bucky really be making? And if Sam figures out where Bucky’s real interest lies and tells Steve, will Steve send him packing?

It makes him want to chew his own fingernails off with nerves.

But before he knows it, they’ve arrived. Steve parks in the driveway of a homely weatherboard house that looks much like all the others on the street, with a neatly manicured garden and small carport out front. He knocks on the front door and Bucky stands by his side, feeling like his stomach’s gone on a roller coaster ride without taking the rest of his body along.

The man who answers the door wears one of the broadest smiles Bucky’s ever seen.

“Steve!” he enthuses, throwing his arms wide open.

“Sam!” Steve replies, doing the same.

They sweep each other into a very enthusiastic hug, complete with lots of manly back slapping.

“How’ve you been?” Sam asks, matching Steve slap for slap in an oddly competitive manner, like they’re both trying to see who’ll quit first.

“Good! How about you?”

“Oh, good… good. Can’t complain. You know how it is.”

It’s at that point, Bucky realises his mouth is hanging open. Sam’s accent is unmistakeable.

When he’s finished with Steve, Sam turns to Bucky. He looks him up and down, then holds out his hand, relaxed and friendly. “Hey man, I’m Sam. Steve tells me you’re from my neck of the woods.”

Still reeling with surprise, Bucky shakes it. “Bucky. It’s nice to meet you. Steve didn’t tell me you were from New York, too.”

Sam grins, distinctly crooked. The expression looks completely at home on his face. Almost like he’d have to try to look anything other than perpetually half-amused. He raises one eyebrow at Steve. “Didn’t he?”

Steve flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess it must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Huh.”

It’s not so much the tone Sam uses as his facial expression which suggests scepticism at the idea. The way his eyebrows rise ever-so-briefly before settling back to neutral again. He glances between Bucky and Steve, giving the distinct impression that nothing about this situation has escaped his notice.

But in the end he smiles and steps back from the doorway. “Come in! Riley’s out back filleting dinner for us. He went out this morning before the weather turned and caught a snapper off the rocks.”

“Riley?” Bucky whispers to Steve while they remove their shoes in the hallway.

“Sam’s husband,” Steve whispers back.

Bucky’s stomach drops like it’s boarded yet another theme park ride. He’s pretty sure his mouth is open again. Obviously not at the fact Sam has a husband. No… it’s the fact that Steve somehow forgot to mention it before now. How it means he’s at least _familiar_ with the rainbow community, in a way that gives Bucky an unreasonable amount of hope…

He tries not to dwell on it as they make their way inside.

The interior of the place is cosy. There are several detailed Māori wood carvings mounted in pride of place on the walls, dozens of photos, various knick-knacks and all the hallmarks of a shared life proudly on display. It’s not flashy or ostentatious, but there is something about it that makes Bucky feel immediately at home. A little jealous even. It’s the sort of life he always dreamed of having, but never quite managed to find the right guy for.

He follows Steve into a small lounge abutting the kitchen. A set of French doors leads onto a compact deck. And there, next to a smoking barbeque, is Riley, making quick work of filleting a large fish.

He’s a commanding presence. About as tall as Steve, but even more solidly built. Exactly the type of guy who’d be first choice to break through an opposing football team’s line of defence. Traditional Māori tattoos peek from beneath his rolled up shirtsleeves, the garment stretching across shoulders broad as a fucking tank. But his size also belies an unexpected finesse. The way that—with one well-positioned and exacting flick of his wrist—he separates one glistening fillet from another. It’s mesmerising to watch.

On noticing his audience, Riley sets the knife down, grinning every bit as brightly as Sam did.

“Steve!” he enthuses. “Hey bro, how’s it going?”

Steve grins back. “Riley! It’s good to see you.”

“Lemme just wash my hands…”

Turning to an outdoor faucet, Riley rinses off fish scales and guts. He approaches Steve, grabbing his hand like he’s going to shake it, only to pull him in close, noses pressed together, until it looks like they’re about to kiss.

Bucky’s eyes nearly pop out of his head.

But there’s no kissing involved. Just a lot of very intense staring into each other’s eyes for a few seconds. Then they part. More friendly back slapping follows.

Afterwards, Steve prods Bucky forward. “Riley, this is Bucky. Sam’s probably told you about him… We met in Cape Reinga and we’ve been travelling together ever since.”

Riley grins again, approaching Bucky, hand outstretched. “He might’ve mentioned something.”

Hesitant, Bucky grips it. Almost immediately, he finds himself pulled into the same position Steve was, nose pressed up firmly against Riley’s.

It makes him freeze up worse than a tourist in Times Square.

By the time he can think again, it’s all over. Next to him, Steve chuckles. Rewarding him with the side-eye he deserves, Bucky breathes out, trying not to look too rattled. Did Steve know that was going to happen? And what’s so funny about it?

Sam appears in the doorway, one eyebrow raised in Steve’s direction again. “You forgot to tell him what a hongi was, didn’t you?”

“I may have done,” Steve concedes, making a face that doesn’t suggest he’s very sorry about it.

Riley laughs, clapping Bucky warmly on the shoulder. “Nice to meet you Bucky. The hongi is a traditional Māori greeting. And I should tell you, you just made the best face I’ve seen during one since Sam met my whānau for the first time.”

“Hey!” Sam objects, pointing a finger at Riley in warning. “I think I did very well.”

Riley shrugs. “Good enough they let you marry me, anyway!” His broad shoulders shake with laughter.

Suddenly, it’s abundantly clear where Steve’s knowledge of Māori culture comes from.

“Yeah, yeah…” Sam rolls his eyes.

They head back inside, where all the ingredients for a salad are sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Do you need a hand with anything?” Steve asks, loitering near it.

His offer is met with firmly folded arms and an utterly flat look from Sam. “What have I told you on multiple occasions about being a guest here, Rogers?”

“That you don’t want me anywhere near the kitchen because I could burn water?” Steve says sheepishly.

“Exactly.”

With how serious Sam looks about it, Bucky can’t help but snicker. He must do it louder than intended, because Steve makes an adorable pouty face in his direction, like a toddler who’s been denied candy.

“What?” Bucky says, relinquishing all pretence of composure. “You did manage to burn that pasta the other night. And in a pot of boiling water, too. I didn’t even know that was possible!”

Steve makes a show of shaking his head like he’s disappointed. But it’s telling he doesn’t try to deny the allegations. He couldn’t anyway. Whatever his many talents are, cooking is definitely not among them. Though in fairness, Bucky had been meaning to volunteer a little more in that area. He just hadn’t got around to suggesting it yet.

Sam laughs. “See? He gets it.”

Steve rolls his eyes but Sam turns away, gesturing at Bucky instead. “You wanna give me a hand with this stuff then?”

It could be a trap. A way to get Bucky alone and figure out exactly what his interest in Steve is. But Sam seems too friendly for that. Based on first impressions, he strikes Bucky as the kind of guy who’d just ask straight up if he wanted to know anything. It’s the kind of honesty Bucky can appreciate.

“Yeah, sure,” he says.

He ends up peeling and chopping potatoes, while Sam works on the salad. It’s a small kitchen, but well designed. Enough that they can easily keep out of each other’s way while working and chatting.

“So how are you finding New Zealand?” Sam asks, shredding a lettuce.

Bucky shrugs. “It’s been fun so far. Pretty different to back home. Everything’s a lot smaller and quieter. How did you end up here?”

Sam looks thoughtful. “Let’s just say that back in New York, I didn’t exactly grow up on the Upper East Side… After I saw a few good friends go down a bad road, it made me worry I’d be next. So I decided not to stick around to find out. Worked my ass off in dead-end jobs after high school, until I could pay my way to Australia. Never even considered New Zealand. I spent about a year across the ditch, travelling and working, then came here on holiday. Ended up falling in love with the place.”

He glances across to where Riley’s sitting on the couch chatting with Steve, and smiles brightly. Mid-conversation, Riley catches his eye and returns the gesture.

It makes Bucky feel like he’s intruding on something personal. The connection between Sam and Riley is so obvious it makes his heart ache with longing. But of course, instead of having anything remotely like it, Bucky has such terrible taste in men he inevitably ends up with gaslighting assholes like Brock.

He sighs, brushing a loose curl off his forehead and letting his gaze wander to Steve instead. Steve—with his worn out old sweater and ever-growing scruff of a beard. He keeps it reasonably trimmed, but it’s definitely grown longer since they first met, and Bucky loves that about him. Steve’s facial hair is a thing of beauty.

A tentative smile curls the edges of Steve’s lips, broadening considerably when he sees Bucky looking. Enough to send Bucky’s stomach into conniptions. Did he cause that? He looks down again, trying not to grin too sappily at the potatoes he’s chopping. No need to make it _that_ obvious.

“So Sam, what do you do for work?” he asks, mostly as a distraction.

Sam throws a handful of cherry tomatoes into a bowl. “I’m a community cop, working in youth education and outreach. Basically, it means I get to help at-risk kids who might otherwise fall through the cracks. My family were always there for me, so I want to make sure other kids have access to that kind of support too…”

It’s nowhere near as scary as Bucky thought it might be, chatting with Sam. He’s a lot like Steve in many ways. Unassuming, principled and easy to talk to. Unlike Steve though, he knows enough about New York to pick up on Bucky’s family pedigree straight away.

“So… Ivy League and a nice place in Brooklyn, huh?” Sam asks, that damned eyebrow creeping knowingly upward again.

“Yeah…” Bucky concedes.

Sam nods once. Then a second time.

Bucky waits for the moment of truth. The one that happens with most people—where they either decide that just because he’s from a well-off family, he must be an asshole. Or, because his family isn’t _that_ well-off by one percent standards, he’s obviously some sort of poor cousin to true wealth.

Sam does neither.

“Well, so long as you didn’t vote Trump, I don’t think it matters,” he declares, before pausing, eyes sharp. “You didn’t vote Trump right? I wouldn’t want to have to evict you from this house or anything. Not when Steve seems to like you as much as he does...”

Bucky grins, buoyed by Sam’s candid assessment of Steve’s feelings for him. “Vote for the Cheeto-in-Chief… are you kidding? I wouldn’t give that asshole the time of day,” he declares belligerently.

Sam shoots him a crooked smile, holding up a fist for Bucky to bump. “Amen to that.”

The rest of the evening passes easily. The fish is probably the best Bucky’s ever had—perfectly sweet and flaking effortlessly apart after only a short grilling on the barbeque. Maybe it’s that it was still in the ocean swimming mere hours ago, or maybe it’s just the warmth of the company. In any case, the only hiccup of the night occurs when it’s time to go to bed. Sam and Riley have a single spare room, and Bucky and Steve can’t agree on who’s going to sleep in it.

“You take it,” Bucky insists.

“No, it’s yours, really. I’ll just pitch the tent on the back lawn,” Steve says stubbornly.

“That’s not fair, Steve. I’m the one who’s putting your plans out…”

“You’re not putting me out. I want you to be comfortable.”

The argument goes back and forth long enough that Sam—rolling his eyes like there’s no tomorrow—steps in like the moderator at a particularly feisty election debate. Or a playground squabble. Same thing, really.

He points Bucky towards the spare room, lamenting concurrently, “Godammit Steve, you’ll fit just fine on the sofa-bed. We’ll move the coffee table…”

Later, Bucky lies awake beneath the covers, feeling strange for not having Steve there next to him. Somehow, he’s come to rely on the steady rhythm of Steve’s breathing, and the small movements he makes in his sleep, to know that all is right with the world. Maybe it even helps Bucky sleep, if he’s being honest.

A noise like a creaking floorboard carries from outside the door, and Bucky wishes desperately for it to be Steve coming in to join him. But a minute or so later, the toilet flushes, and whoever was out there leaves back the same way they came.

Bucky rolls over, trying to squash the unfamiliar pillow into a comfortable shape. In truth, he probably would’ve preferred sleeping in the tent on the lawn. At least then he could’ve stolen Steve’s sleeping bag. It’s nicer than his own, and he’s been wondering what it would be like to fall asleep in something that smells like Steve ever since their first night together.

He imagines trying to explain _that_ little fantasy to Steve.

So all things considered, maybe it’s for the best that they’re separated like naughty kids at a sleepover…

In the morning Bucky emerges from the bedroom to find Steve already up and eating breakfast at the kitchen counter—his usual mug of tea, and Marmite on toast. Sunlight streams into the lounge, as though yesterday’s rain has washed the sky clear.

“Morning,” Bucky says, breezing past Steve and heading straight for the coffee Sam told him he could help himself to last night.

He picks up the electric kettle and shakes it to make sure there’s enough water, then sets it back on the base and switches it on. Apparently the voltage of the mains power over here is higher than back in the States, so every household has an electric kettle instead of boiling water on the stove. It’s another one of those strange little differences that stands out to Bucky, just like needing a power adapter to fit the oddly-shaped plug sockets.

But as long as he gets his coffee, he doesn’t much care how it happens.

“Morning yourself,” Steve says, gaze lingering on him in a truly gratifying way. “How’d you sleep?”

Bucky leans against the counter, yawning and running a hand through his unruly hair. Back home he probably would’ve cut it by now. But over here, there doesn’t seem like much point. He’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t care if it looks a bit untidy. Actually, if the way he’s looking right now is any indication, it might be worth keeping it a little messy…

“Okay,” Bucky says, shrugging.

“Only okay?”

“Yeah…” Biting his lower lip, he hesitates. But… what the hell. Might as well go all in. “I think I actually missed the air bed.”

Steve’s eyebrows creep upward. “You missed the air bed,” he repeats with careful precision, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“Yeah.”

A gentle curve begins to show at the edges of his mouth. “And what exactly about the air bed is it that you miss?”

The kettle boils and Bucky turns his attention to it, pouring hot water into his mug and stirring it slowly, to give himself time to think. Then he faces Steve, trying not to smile. “It’s comfortable, I guess. I’ve gotten used to having it around.”

“Huh,” Steve snorts, staring into his tea like he’s suddenly grown very fond of it.

“How was the couch?”

“Oh you know…” Shrugging casually, Steve’s gaze strays back to Bucky, gorgeous blue eyes sparkling. “Guess I kind of missed the air bed, too.”

It makes Bucky feel warm all over, to know that Steve’s replying with the same kind of double entendre he’s been using. Or at least… Bucky thinks he is. No one would really be that enthusiastic about an air bed, would they? He frowns into his mug.

“Morning!” Sam announces loudly, waltzing into the kitchen like he wants to make damn sure Bucky and Steve know he’s coming. He turns to Steve, giving him some kind of look which ends with Steve concentrating very single-mindedly on his toast, as though Bucky doesn’t exist.

But there’s a curious dusting of pink on his cheeks that definitely wasn’t there before. It makes Bucky wish he could’ve seen whatever face Sam made at him. 

Unannounced, Riley pops his head through the door. “Who’s up for a morning surf?”

Surfing, as it turns out, is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. It’s not something Bucky’s ever tried, or thought to try, since beaches are something of a hot commodity during a typical New York summer. The only one he even knows of where people actually surf is Rockaway, but that’s a whole day trip away and it’s usually just as crowded as everywhere else.

Which is definitely not the case here.

Only ten minutes drive from the industrial wharves of Gisborne, stacked high with cut logs waiting to be shipped overseas, is a secluded beach. It’s on the other side of the peninsula to the city, lined by a sparse mix of humble holiday homes and year-round residences. The water sparkles like diamond dust in the clear morning light. Waves curl up and over themselves, breaking just offshore. It looks like a postcard from paradise. And they’ve got it almost entirely to themselves.

Sam lends Bucky his board. He and Riley have one each, plus a cheap second-hand extra they look after for Steve, since he’s around often enough to make use of it. Steve insists on lending Bucky his wetsuit too, which is just as well because—

“It’s fucking freezing!” Bucky yells, dancing from foot to foot as frigid water laps around his thighs. He shoots an accusatory look at Steve for having talked him into this. “I thought you said it was summer?”

Typically, Steve shrugs. “It is summer. I never said it’d be warm.”

“How are you not in a wetsuit anyway?” 

Steve’s eyes crinkle with humour. “Because believe it or not, someone borrowed mine. Luckily, we’re brought up tough in the south.”

As they paddle out, Steve’s careful never to stray too far from Bucky’s side. He shows Bucky how to catch a wave, and the correct technique for standing up on the board.

Bucky falls off. Repetitively.

Thankfully, with a leash attached to his ankle, it’s not like he could ever lose the board altogether. Steve’s a patient and relaxed teacher too, which makes the experience fun. And because Bucky’s wearing his wetsuit, he gets to admire Steve’s uncovered body every time he’s up and out of the water. 

Which is a lot. Because Steve, as it turns out, is actually a pretty decent surfer.

Enough to spend a lot of time standing up on the board anyway. So it’s just as well Bucky can’t keep up with him. Otherwise the fact he’s drooling over every curve and flex of Steve’s muscles might be a whole lot more obvious.

They stick at it until Bucky can manage more than half a second upright before faceplanting awkwardly into the water. Steve rides in behind him then, dismounting his own board and swimming over, looking proud enough for Bucky to have just qualified for the Olympics.

To be fair, Bucky feels it’s not entirely unwarranted, since he thought he was going to suck a whole lot worse. 

“You did it!” Steve enthuses, throwing his arms around Bucky’s neck and pulling him into a totally unexpected hug.

A peal of delighted laughter escapes Bucky’s throat. He wraps one arm around Steve’s middle, tipping his head back and gripping the board behind him to stay afloat despite the sheer solid bulk of man bearing down on him. “Thanks to you.”

There’s a soft dusting of water droplets across Steve’s eyelashes. He looks down at Bucky, lips curling into a delightful little smile.

And _oh fuck_ —Bucky has never wanted to kiss him so bad.

The longer he’s around Steve the worse the feeling is getting. As though Steve is Bucky’s magnetic pole, undeniable and irresistible, and closer they get to each other, the stronger the attraction is becoming. 

He doesn’t remember it ever being this way with Brock.

“Come on,” Steve says, finally backing off a little. “We should probably go back in. Give Sam a go.”

Even though Bucky agrees, he still misses Steve’s warmth.

It’s fun though, sitting on the beach with Riley while Sam and Steve go head to head. They paddle for the same waves, trading good-natured insults and matching each other turn for showy turn. Still, Bucky has to concede Sam’s winning. He’s faster and more agile than Steve, quicker to stand, and with a better technique in the bigger breaks.

“They’re quite competitive aren’t they?” Bucky says. 

Riley chuckles. He’s a cheerful guy. Easy-going and never far from a joke, even if his broad accent and colloquialisms sometimes leave Bucky doing double-takes.

“Yeah, they’ve always been like that, eh. Ever since they met.”

“So you’ve known Steve a while then?”

“Oh yeah. Years now.”

Lying back on the sand and ignoring the way it sticks to his wet hair, Bucky gazes up at the scraps of cotton candy cloud above them. He closes his eyes, breathing in fresh salt air. Savouring the rush of wind in his ears. The distant sound of crashing waves and calling gulls. 

It feels like he’s been doing this a lot lately. Finally taking the time to stop and breathe. To figure out who Bucky Barnes really is—what he wants—when he’s not suffocating beneath the weight of other people’s expectations.

“I like it here,” he says, thinking out loud. “It’s peaceful.”

“It’s definitely a special place,” Riley agrees. “Not that I’m biased or anything, having grown up here and all…”

Bucky cracks an eye open. “Don’t tell Steve I said that by the way. He’s determined to make me like your country, so I’m holding out on him.”

Riley laughs. “How did you two meet anyway?”

“I was at Cape Reinga with some friends who I was travelling with and Steve—well, he kind of distracted me I guess. Told me some local legend about spirits and final journeys or something, and we got talking.”

A sharp snort of amusement comes from Riley’s direction. “Bloody Steve…”

Bucky looks over. “What?”

But Riley just shakes his head, grinning. “Nah. Don’t worry about it.”

Bucky’s wetsuit is starting to dry out, flecks of salt and sand scratching his skin. He finds his mind wandering, back to Steve and that night in Matamata. Of seeing him shirtless in the hot pool for the first time…

“I was wondering,” he says slowly. “You don’t happen to know where Steve got his necklace from, do you? The fish hook one? He told me a friend gave it to him…”

Riley smiles. “Ah. It just so happens I made it.”

“You _made_ it?”

“As a gift from me and Sam before he moved to London.”

Bucky sits up straight. “Really?”

Riley nods. “Carving pounamu is my profession. I run a store in town, selling pieces to tourists mostly. But Steve’s is special. It came from a stone he found himself, near Hokitika in the South Island.”

“Oh,” Bucky breathes, overwhelmed. It’s wonderful to think that Steve’s pendant holds so much meaning for him. A little piece of home he carried with him all the way to the other side of the world and back again.

Bucky can’t think of anything remotely close to that important to him.

Expression thoughtful, Riley stretches out his legs, tracing a stylised hook in the sand beside him. “I remember because the stone was an especially beautiful shade of deep green, with these misty swirls of pale seafoam, like silt beneath the ocean’s surface. Steve said it reminded him of the contrast between the snowline and the bush.”

Wind rustles through the beach-grasses nearby, sending a flock of small birds scattering to the sky.

“I think he meant for it to be a gift to me. But I took a kind of liberal interpretation to that. After all, the stone chooses the wearer, not the other way around.”

In Bucky’s mind, it sounds like something straight out of a Tolkien fantasy.

“Wow…” he says, truly meaning it. “That’s so neat.”

Riley grins. “I could take you through my workshop if you like? Show you how it’s done.”

Eagerly, Bucky nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Two familiar voices carry up the beach, arguing.

“I absolutely caned you out there Rogers, don’t deny it—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you totally wiped out on that last wave—”

“Yeah but _before_ that—”

Sam and Steve stop in front of them, propping their surfboards up in the sand. Rivulets of water slide down Steve’s chest, following the sculped line of his abs into the hollows of his hips, then disappearing into his swimming trunks. 

Shit... Bucky’s staring again, isn’t he?

“I don’t know about you,” Sam says. “But after that, I’m pretty hungry. Let’s go home, get cleaned up and go somewhere for lunch.”

“Okay Wilson, you’re on,” Steve grins, seemingly unaware that he currently has Bucky’s full, undivided attention.

Glancing briefly at Bucky, Riley all but rolls his eyes. _‘See?_ ’ he seems to say. _‘This is just what they’re like.’_

Offering a hand to Bucky, Steve pulls him up, gently brushing the sand off his back with a touch that sends sparks of energy skipping deliciously beneath Bucky’s skin. “You’ve got sand everywhere!” he laments.

Not everywhere _enough_ Bucky thinks, wishing Steve would touch him like this more often. Maybe Bucky could roll himself in sand while wearing Steve’s wetsuit everyday. 

So never mind the food… now Bucky’s just thirsty. 

Very thirsty.

If Bucky was hoping to judge every New Zealand city by the presence or lack of a Starbucks, he’s starting to realise he’ll be disappointed more often than not. Because Gisborne, like so many other cities, doesn’t have one. Instead, he has to settle for a regular iced coffee with his café lunch. It’s nice enough—because pretty much everywhere in New Zealand has nice coffee—but it’s not the same as his favourite ‘diabetes in a cup,’ as Steve determinedly calls it.

After lunch, Bucky visits Riley’s workshop while Steve and Sam wander off to do their own thing.

The workspace is small and cramped, located out the back of a showroom for Riley’s carvings. Every flat surface is packed with stones of all shapes, sizes and shades, and in various states of completion. Tools reminiscent of a dentist’s drills sit on a rack by the workstation, along with a couple of bright directional lamps.

“Here,” Riley says, plopping a round flat stone into Bucky’s hands. “That’s pounamu. You can tell, because when you wet it, the whitish hazy colour turns deep green.”

He indicates a small drip line over the workstation, which drains into a sink. “Try it if you like.”

Curious, Bucky holds the stone under the flow of water, watching it transform as though it’s been polished.

“Oh!”

He holds it up to the light, turning it this way and that. Admiring the moss-green colour flecked with ebony. Then, he turns back to Riley.

“How do you carve them?”

Riley takes the stone back, drying it on a small towel and placing it on a clear part of the workbench. He grabs a pencil. “It really depends on the stone. Something this shape is perfect for a koru—a new fern leaf. It symbolises new beginnings… life, hope.”

He sketches a rough spiral on the surface of the rock.

“But with other pounamu, sometimes you don’t really know until you begin. It depends on the person too. If you know who you’re making it for… I can’t really explain, but sometimes, you just get a feeling, you know?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, watching with interest as Riley drills and shapes the lines he drew on the stone, holding it under the running water to keep it cool and wash away the dust.

In under fifteen minutes, he’s carved a rough spiral from the raw rock he began with. He holds it up. “Each one is unique, even if it doesn’t have quite the same story Steve’s does.”

“They all have meanings?” Bucky asks, glancing around at the various works in progress scattered around the room.

Riley nods. “The different designs do. And traditionally, pounamu is gifted. It’s bad luck to buy it for yourself. The act of giving forms part of its story. Part of the mana of the piece.” He laughs lightly. “But obviously, there’s an exception for tourists who want to take something home with them.”

Admittedly, Bucky had been considering it. But having heard the story behind Steve’s, it feels like anything he could buy would pale in comparison.

Switching off the lights over the workbench, Riley puts his tools away. “I guess we should get back.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

They make for the door, but just before Bucky reaches it, he pauses. On a forgotten dusty shelf at eye-height rests an eye-catching piece of stone. It’s oddly shaped—a little lumpy, and flecked with ghostly pale green along a flat edge that’s already been cut.

He can’t say what, specifically, about it stands out. Only that it does.

Riley pauses, following Bucky’s gaze. “Pretty unique rock, that one.”

“Is it?” Bucky says, frowning.

It feels vaguely like he’s staring down the One Ring—some otherworldly inanimate object hellbent on whispering its dark secrets to the deepest recesses of his soul. Urging him to reach out and take it.

But, far more likely, all this talk of mystical stones choosing owners, plus no small helping of jealousy at Steve’s meaningful pendant has gone to Bucky’s head.

He shakes it clear, faking a nonchalant smile. “Never mind. Let’s go.”

An odd expression lingers on Riley’s face though. One Bucky can’t read. Brows gently furrowed, he spares a brief glance toward the stone, then follows Bucky out the door.

It makes Bucky nervous. He really hopes he hasn’t just made some kind of horrible cultural faux pas that’s going to come back and bite him in the ass. Just when things were going so well, too. But if he has, Riley gives no indication of it, even if he is a little more subdued than usual on the walk home.

Or perhaps that too, is just a figment of Bucky’s clearly overactive imagination.

That evening, they sit in the back garden sharing drinks and food as the sun goes down. Moths flutter about in the warm and still air, the light softening as it fades out from another perfect day.

“So my cuzzie from up Waihau Bay way—the one who did all the wood carvings round the house—” Riley says, presumably elaborating for Bucky’s benefit. “His dropkick dad came back to town recently, still going on about getting the Crazy Horses gang back together. Wanted him to join.”

“Again?” Steve says in disbelief. “Isn’t he like… in his late sixties now? He should know better.”

“You’d think so,” Riley chuckles, seemingly unconcerned. “But I guess some people never change.”

“Did your cousin send him packing?”

Riley nods. “Oh yeah. Pretty sure he told him to go take a nice long walk off Tolaga Bay pier.”

“Good riddance,” Sam offers.

Bucky swallows the last of his drink, listening quietly. The drama of Riley’s family relationships goes well above his head, in a way that makes it painfully obvious just how long these three have known each other. It feels distinctly like Bucky’s on the outside looking in.

Not that they’re trying to make him feel that way. It’s just that all the little in-jokes, stories and customs of their friendship bleed through their easy-going inclusion of Bucky, much the same way Bucky, Clint and Nat’s would. Hallmarks of a shared existence that are impossible to entirely erase.

Watching Steve with his friends makes him seem more like a real person. Well rounded, with interests and an everyday life outside of the liminal holiday space he exists in with Bucky. Not that they haven’t talked about some of that stuff—Steve’s farm, and Bucky’s job—but there’s a temporary feeling to it. Like it doesn’t really matter in the long run, because sooner or later, they’re going to part company anyway.

But seeing it unfold right in front of him makes Bucky want to dive deeper. To get to know the Steve that Sam and Riley see. The one who sings along, too-enthusiastic when Riley whips out a guitar and starts playing old tunes. Or who insists that Sam stays seated while he goes inside to bring them all fresh drinks. The one who gets quietly passionate about issues of social inequality, but in the same breath unleashes a detailed commentary about the various types of perennial grasses and their application for farming drought-prone areas. The Steve who’s warm, funny and engaging, and who keeps glancing across the table at Bucky in the moments when he thinks Bucky’s not looking…

It makes Bucky realise how much he doesn’t know. How much he wants to know.

His chest feels so tight with it, he can’t breathe.

Making some excuse about needing to use the bathroom, he beats a quick retreat inside. There, hands palm-down on the cool bathroom counter, he draws in an unsteady breath. The man in the mirror stares back at him, wide-eyed and unsettled.

How is it possible to want any one person this badly? And when did Bucky’s feelings shift from merely wanting to sleep with Steve, to needing something _more_ from him?

From a guy who Bucky can’t even be sure swings that way.

He groans, running a hand through his hair. What a fine mess he’s got himself into. This vacation was supposed to be about relaxing and escaping the complexities of everyday life. Not making new ones for himself over here. His streak of being a textbook gay disaster continues…

In the kitchen he helps himself to another drink from the fridge, leaning against the cupboards to buy himself time before he has to go back outside and re-join the others, looking like everything is fine. Guitar chords float softly through the open doors, joined by Steve’s rich baritone, and Riley’s more upbeat tenor, singing lyrics that sound like they’re probably in Māori.

It’s nice. Comfortable. Or at least it would be… if Bucky wasn’t currently doubting every life choice he’s ever made.

Someone enters the room, their feet scuffing briefly across the threshold. Bucky looks up to find Sam watching him, a mostly-empty beer in hand.

“Hey,” Sam says, jerking his chin up briefly in acknowledgement. It’s a gesture some New Zealanders seem to use as an informal greeting. The ‘East Coast Wave,’ Steve calls it.

“Hey,” Bucky returns, lifting a hand weakly in reply.

Sam retrieves a fresh drink from the fridge and joins him, leaning against the other side of the kitchen. “So how’d you enjoy getting to see Riley’s workshop today?”

Bucky rolls his bottle between his fingers, glad for the distraction. “It was amazing. He showed me how the carving works, and some of the pieces he’s done. They’re really stunning.”

Nodding, Sam smiles warmly. “Yeah, he’s a pretty talented guy. I’m lucky to have him. His family are descended from chiefs, so I’m not sure him marrying a regular dude from New York was ever part of their plan. But luckily his Nan’s pretty open-minded about that kind of stuff, and she’s a kuia, so what she says goes.” He laughs, holding up his bottle in toast. “And here I am!”

Matching the gesture, Bucky clinks his own bottle against it. “Sounds like a proper love story.”

“Oh, I don’t know if you’d call it that…”

But from the way Sam’s smiling—all soft around the edges—it seems like it probably is.

“So,” Bucky says, trying to keep the nagging sense of jealousy he feels at bay. “How did you and Steve meet? He said something about it being at university.”

“Yeah,” Sam confirms, sipping his drink. “We were both in the same LGBT student association. Kind of hit it off when we figured out we both liked helping people.”

Bucky nearly spits out a full mouthful of beer. Half of it ends up somewhere down his lungs and he coughs, eyes watering at the uncomfortable burning sensation in his chest. Steve was in an LGBT group?

Sam gives him a funny look and Bucky tries to get himself back under control. But there’s a seed of hope growing somewhere low in his stomach and by the feel of it, it’s sprouting a whole damn ecosystem. Complete with butterflies and everything.

 _Play it cool Barnes_. “So was he like… a straight ally or something?” he asks, deliberately light.

Too deliberate, obviously.

Sam lets out a snort of amusement, eyebrows shooting skyward like Bucky’s suggested the Pope might not actually be Catholic. “Steve, straight?” He glances out the window at Steve, who’s still chatting with Riley, completely unaware of the conversation going on about him inside, then chuckles softly to himself. “Damn… he really has been playing his cards close to his chest…”

Bucky stomach does a slow dizzy flip he’s pretty sure has nothing to do with the alcohol he’s drunk.

“He… has?”

There’s a crooked smile on Sam’s lips, a bit like he can read Bucky’s mind. For a moment, he seems to fight an internal battle, brows pinching together as though they’ve taken on a life of their own. Then, he sets his beer down on the countertop with a purposeful clunk, clapping his hands together and looking precisely like a guy who’s about to drop his best friend in the deep end.

“Okay so… do _not_ tell him I told you this, but back at uni, he definitely hooked up with way more guys than women.”

Bucky’s heart races. Steve _is_ bi, then. Or at least… not against fooling around with guys.

Although, that doesn’t mean he’s into Bucky, specifically. But why else would anyone pick up a complete stranger and promise to spend weeks driving them the full length of the country?

Bucky’s butterflies migrate from his stomach to his chest, filling it with a pleasant floaty warmth.

He glances out the window. Steve’s got Riley’s guitar now, making an utter mess of some song or another, much to the amusement of Riley, who looks like he can’t sit still for laughing.

Shaking his head, Sam watches them with a fond smile. “Typical Steve. Not that I’m critiquing small town New Zealand or anything, but I don’t think it was exactly conducive to coming out of the closet, if you know what I mean? Not back when he grew up anyway. Even Auckland was a revelation to him.” He turns back to Bucky. “You can take the boy out of the small town, but I’m not sure you can take the small town out of the boy... if you catch my meaning?”

He tips his head quizzically, and Bucky nods. Put in those terms, he does understand.

He met plenty of guys like Steve at college. Slept with a few of them, too. The ones from small town America, coming to the big city for the first time, who didn’t know what to do with their newfound freedom. For some of them, it went straight to their heads and they fell off the rails for a bit. Others settled in, wearing the rainbow culture like they’d lived it all their lives. But for many, they walked a line somewhere in-between, never quite as open as Bucky, but never as closed off as they had been before either.

“Yeah, I get that,” he says, relief flooding every cell of his body.

Steve isn’t off the table then. There’s a _chance_ with him.

Although… it still doesn’t feel like the whole explanation. Because if Steve actually wanted Bucky, he could’ve said something by now. Made a move.

Sam smiles as though he can see right through Bucky’s dissatisfaction. He lifts his bottle again, brushing a ring of condensation off the counter beneath it. “Real talk then, one New Yorker to another—Steve’s a really great guy. I’d do anything for him, and I know he’d do the same for me.”

“Okay…”

“But he’s had a lot on his plate this year.”

Bucky frowns. It feels like there should be more to the statement. But apparently, having said what he wanted to say, Sam’s done. 

“Don’t give me that look,” he says, amused. “I might sell out my buddy when it’s for his own good, but for everything else, he can share it with you if he wants.”

Fair enough, Bucky supposes. If a little disappointing…

“Yeah… of course,” he says.

Sam chuckles. He takes another swig of his beer. “Just go easy on him, okay?”

There’s something about the tone he uses that suggests a subtle, implicit endorsement.

“Sure,” Bucky promises.

Sam nods. “Good man.”

The next morning, Riley, Sam and Steve are all crowded around the dining table when Bucky gets up, heads bent over a dog-eared topographical map and Steve’s mobile phone.

“Yeah, I reckon tomorrow’s your best bet,” Riley says, pointing at the screen. “Looks like the weather turns nasty for a couple of days after that.”

Steve frowns. “That means we’ll have to leave today, though. The crossing takes a whole day.”

Sam nudges his arm. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere. And you still have to drop my stuff back afterwards.”

“Yeah, true.”

“Plus you don’t want to be waiting days for the weather to clear to do it. Not if you want to see everywhere else on your list _and_ be home by Christmas.”

Bucky clears his throat and they all look up. The slightly preoccupied expression on Steve’s face dissipates immediately.

“Hey Bucky,” he says, voice soft in a way that brings Bucky’s conversation with Sam last night to front of mind. “Looks like there’s been a change of plans. You ready to walk into Mordor with me?”

And God—someone needs to stop him from being so damn hot _and_ referencing Bucky’s favourite movies at the same time. It’s a truly lethal combination.

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” Bucky quotes, dropping into the seat opposite him and grinning across the table, nonchalant, like he’s not already deep into fantasies about bailing on the whole Mordor thing in favour of a renewed effort to entice Steve into bed.

Steve laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Just tell me we’re not walking into an actual volcano.”

“Er, well… maybe not _into_ …” Steve says, looking awkward. “Just over.”

Bucky groans. Of course. Does everything in this country have to be on or near a volcano? “I can’t believe the things you make me do…” he says, shaking his head for extra dramatic flair.

“Be honest, you love it,” Steve returns immediately, thus proving he’s absolutely got Bucky’s number.

It’s the way he’s looking at Bucky though, like they’re the only ones in the room, which makes Bucky feel all kinds of hot and bothered.

“Maybe,” he admits, unable to help the corner of his mouth rising. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never,” Steve promises, placing his hand solemnly over his heart.

Sam snorts, rolling his eyes and interrupting. “Are you guys planning on borrowing my hiking gear or what?

With a subtle little smile at Bucky, Steve stands, stretching his arms attractively above his head. “Yeah, we are. Come on…”

It’s a new day. A new beginning. A new chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * I'm chalking up my first Taika Waititi reference in this chapter :)
>   * The "East Coast Wave" is very a familiar gesture depending on exactly where you live around the country. It's not (as the name implies) just confined to the North Island's East Coast. Early in the Covid pandemic, our Prime Minister even encouraged us to use it as a safe (contact-free) form of greeting, instead of handshakes and hongi.
>   * Tolaga Bay has the second longest wharf in the whole of New Zealand. It's 660m long and very impressive when seen in person. So Riley's cousin is effectively telling his dad to go take a huge hike here. 
>   * "Mana" is one of those concepts I find hard to pin down and explain. It's kind of like prestige or status (completely unrelated to wealth though), and can belong to people or objects. It can be increased or diminished by a person's actions. So in this story, Riley's family would have a lot of mana within their community because of both their ancestry and the fact they make an ongoing positive contribution (by preserving culture and traditions, and helping people). There's a slightly expanded definition [here](https://maoridictionary.co.nz/search?idiom=&phrase=&proverb=&loan=&histLoanWords=&keywords=mana). 
>   * A "kuia" is a female elder, and in Māori culture elders are respected and held in high esteem. Hence why what Riley's grandmother says, goes.
>   * "Whānau" just means family. It's one of those Māori words that's so commonly used any New Zealander should know it, whether they speak the language or not.
> 



	9. One Does Simply Walk Into Mordor

“So… home by Christmas?” Bucky asks, glancing at Steve in the drivers seat and asking the question that’s been bothering him since he heard Sam’s declaration this morning. 

It’s not something they’ve talked about yet—a timeframe for this trip. Only ever the destination.

Truth be told, Bucky hadn’t even considered the time involved before now. But just because he has six weeks vacation in New Zealand, doesn’t mean Steve does. Not with a farm to run. It makes Bucky realise he doesn’t actually know how Steve’s been managing it while he’s away. If he has someone looking after the place in his absence. 

Steve clears his throat, looking tentatively in Bucky’s direction. “Yeah… hopefully that’s okay with you? I always planned to be back home by Christmas, so I figure if I drop you in Invercargill on Christmas Eve, you’ll be able to get a flight wherever you need to go to meet your friends for Christmas Day.”

Of course… it’s completely normal and logical to think Bucky would want to spend Christmas with Clint and Nat. But the sinking sensation in his stomach probably suggests something contrary, if he cares to examine it. Which, of course, he doesn’t.

It’s not like he can refuse, though. Or impose on Steve’s hospitality any more than he already is, travelling the entire length of the country with him. So, it’s Christmas Eve or nothing. But at least there’s still over two weeks to go until then. A lot can happen in two weeks, Bucky reasons. Hopes.

He pulls his phone out. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll message Nat and Clint and see where they’re going to be. Book a flight.”

“Cool,” Steve says. But a small furrow creeps back between his brows nonetheless. 

It’s a weird feeling, planning on going their separate ways when it feels like they’ve only just agreed to travel together. Disappointing, mostly. Yet at the same time, Bucky dreads telling Nat and Clint the date they’ve agreed to, because of how long it means he’ll be spending away from them.

They’re definitely going to give him shit for it.

He drafts a message.

> Bucky: Steve and I have decided he’s going to drop me off in Invercargill on Christmas Eve. Where are you planning to be for Christmas? I’ll meet you there.

It’s only _after_ he hits send that Bucky notices the precise arrangement of the wording he’s used—‘Steve and I.’ As though they’re one of those couples who won’t do anything without consulting each other first. Clint is definitely going to read _way_ too much into that. Nat too, although at least she’s smart enough not to say so…

> Nat: We’re spending Christmas/New Year somewhere called Coromandel. Apparently it’s the place to be. Meet you in Auckland on Christmas Eve to drive there?
> 
> Bucky: I’ll book flights. Let you know when I get in?
> 
> Clint: Live music, beaches, great weather… It’s going to be awesome!

Bucky drafts a quick reply. Then deletes it again, because ‘yay…’ sounds like a very specific brand of sarcasm that Nat will see through straight away. So even though he’s not terribly enthusiastic about the prospect, he feels as though he should probably try a little harder to sound like he is.

> Bucky: I’ll look forward to it.

There’s no changing his gut feeling though. The nagging sensation of lead in his stomach, like an anchor dragging him down.

Putting his phone away, he sighs, doing his best to put it out of mind.

They drive along the edge of yet another enormous lake, up onto a desolate windswept plateau resplendent with scraggly knee-high tussock and shrubs in every shade of amber-brown, moss green and even an unusual plum purple. Natural gullies and undulations in the land hide groves of native beech forest, dark against the surrounding terrain.

In the sky, scattered clouds drift along sedately, never quite managing to obscure the crowning glory of the area—an enormous, sprawling mountain that rises to tower many thousands of feet above them. A thin snowy veil still adorns its uppermost slopes despite the warmth of this time of year.

Bucky realises his mouth is open.

“Pretty impressive huh?” Steve says, grinning.

He looks so smug about it, there’s no way Bucky can play along.

He affects indifference. “I mean… I’ve been to Mount Rainier, so…”

It doesn’t fool Steve.

“Just admit it’s impressive, New Yorker.”

Bucky makes a face. “Fine. It’s kind of impressive.”

“And,” Steve continues, pointing past Bucky, out the left window. “The other one over there, with the single cone. That’s Mount Ngauruhoe. Better known as Mount Doom.”

Head whipping around, Bucky presses his face up against the glass.

The second mountain is a silent monolith on the horizon. Big enough to be unmoving while the rest of the landscape whips by the ute. It really does look like Mount Doom from the movies—just with a lot less lava, lightning, and well… doom.

Even so, it’s exciting to see it for real.

“Oh, and…” Steve adds, looking far too pleased with himself for Bucky’s taste. “After we’ve put up the tent, I’ve got somewhere else to show you too.”

“Where?”

He smiles. “It’s a surprise.”

Turning away so his face can’t betray how he feels about the idea of Steve wanting to surprise him, Bucky goes back to admiring the view, savouring the familiar spark of warmth that settles into his chest.

In a way he can’t explain, things feel different between him and Steve now. Like Gisborne was a turning point. Not that Steve ever lacked for confidence, but he did seem to shy away from any suggestion of intimacy between them like a nervy thoroughbred on a pre-race walk.

Now, even if he’s not exactly propositioning Bucky, he does seem more comfortable in his own skin. Less likely to bolt if Bucky offers him a sugar cube now and then.

It makes Bucky wonder at the cause for the change—and whether or not a certain friend might have been involved. After all, Sam seemed to be pretty good at reading people. He sure as hell read Bucky. Like an open book. So it wouldn’t surprise Bucky if he’d found the time to have a few quiet words with Steve too.

Anyway, whatever the cause, Bucky likes this new side to Steve. It makes the air around them feel alive with new and exciting possibilities. Ones he hopes to explore fully, in due course.

They pull into a campground partway up the sweeping flanks of the larger volcano, near a striking multi-storey chateau. It’s built like a tricolour layer cake, with a cream shaded base, red brick middle, and a pale blue tin roof. Something about it looks awfully familiar, even though Bucky’s never been here before…

He stares at it as they drive past, trying to place the feeling. “What’s that building?”

Steve looks over. “That’s the Chateau. It’s pretty well known around here.”

“I think I recognise it?” Bucky says, frowning.

“Oh!” Steve perks up. “It’s in my photo album. Mum and Dad stopped here too.”

“Ahhh.”

It’s a thankfully sensible explanation for Bucky’s weird sense of _déjà vu_. He supposes that means they’ll be taking a photo in front of it soon, too.

They make quick work of putting up the tent—coordinating in a way Bucky wouldn’t have thought possible only a week ago. He wonders what his parents would think, seeing him slot together tent poles and hammer in pegs like he was born to it. Working the tired old foot pump that wheezes and groans for the five minutes straight it takes to inflate the air bed. They’d probably think he’s lost his mind.

But damn, is Bucky ever happy to see that bed again.

No word of a lie, Steve’s modest little tent is quickly becoming one of his favourite places in the world. There’s nothing quite like hearing the gentle patter of rain on the fly at night, or the soft rustle it makes as it shifts in the wind. Watching the way dawn steals into it slowly each morning, painting everything a washed out shade of blue.

How Steve sleeps with his lips slightly parted, eyelashes fluttering softly against his cheeks in the moments just before he wakes…

“You coming?” Steve asks, tipping his head back towards the small cluster of buildings that someone has optimistically named a ‘village.’

Bucky tucks his hands into his pockets, smiling. “Sure.”

They wander up the road to the local visitors centre, where Bucky learns everything he’s ever wanted to know about volcanoes and more. Including that the one they’re currently standing on, and the ones they’ll be walking over tomorrow, are very much still active.

There’s a seismic drum recording of the last big eruption back in the 1990s featuring some very frenetic looking squiggly lines, as well as multiple photos of the mountain with a towering ash plume rising from its summit. Several posters display the safe evacuation routes in case of a lahar—a fast-moving mudflow that could sweep down from the mountain’s crater lake at any time.

It’s not exactly reassuring.

But Steve is “fairly” certain it won’t happen while they’re here, which Bucky supposes has to be good enough.

Back at the campground, they jump in the ute for a short drive back down the road they came up. Steve pulls off at a gravel verge marked ‘Tawhai Falls.’ Locking the vehicle, he leads Bucky down a short track through forested surrounds to a viewing platform overlooking a small rocky waterfall.

“Do you recognise it?” he asks, with much the same manner as a kid on Christmas Eve.

Unfortunately, no matter which way Bucky views the outlook, he can’t figure out what he’s meant to be recognising.

“No?”

Steve clicks his tongue in disappointment, utterly insincere though, judging from the way his eyes are still all happily creased around the edges. He motions for Bucky to follow him down a shallow set of stairs to the edge of the river. A bit of scrambling over slippery rocks to get downstream follows, during which Bucky very nearly falls in. Eventually though, Steve stops, turning him around and pointing back towards the waterfall. “Recognise it now?”

Facing it, Bucky frowns. It feels like he’s been doing that a lot today. There _is_ something familiar about the quaint rocky pool and rushing water though. Something that—like with the Chateau—he can’t quite place.

“Gollum’s forbidden pool!” Steve whispers delightedly by his ear.

He’s standing just behind Bucky, solid and warm, and oh—God, how Bucky wishes Steve would wrap his arms around him right now.

“Oh!” he exclaims, finally seeing it.

The scene flashes to life in his memory—Gollum scampering around the rocks of a moonlit pool with his fish before being lured away and captured by Faramir’s men…

It’s a gorgeous spot. So close to the road yet simultaneously isolated in its own little world. Just like so many other places in this country. Wonder, where you least expect it.

For a second Bucky even considers doing something completely crazy, like turning around and kissing Steve. He wants to… _so much_ , and this feels like it would be the perfect place. But the heavy crunch of feet on gravel betrays the unwelcome arrival of other sightseers. It’s hard not to groan at their spectacularly bad timing.

Steve lets out a long sigh, like he senses it too. “Seen enough?” he asks, looking about as enthusiastic as Bucky feels.

The magic of the place kind of dissipates when they have to share it with other people.

Frustrated, Bucky nods. Talk about killing the mood…

They stop for an obligatory photo in front of the Chateau on the way back, standing closer together than in any of their previous shots.

That night, Bucky cooks dinner. It’s nothing special, just a simple bolognese recipe he learnt when he was still a teenager living at home. But Steve raves about it like it’s from a Michelin star awarded Tribeca restaurant with a celebrity chef.

“This is so good!” he moans, clearing his plate like there’s no tomorrow. “Where’d you learnt to cook like this?”

And even though Steve is so terrible at cooking he wouldn’t know stale bread if it hit him in the face, it’s high enough praise to go entirely to Bucky’s head.

“Family tradition,” he offers, smiling.

Say what you will about charity lunches, but as much as they might embody the spirit of altruism on the surface, behind the scenes they’re a bloodbath of competition—every society family worth their salt going head to head to be the best host, the best cook, just generally… the _best_.

And Bucky’s mom was an expert. The passive aggressive feud between the Barnes’ and Starks was legendary. Every year, for longer than Bucky had been alive, it had been the Barnes’ pumpkin pie versus the Starks’ fruit mince tart, the annual Christmas turkey roast-off, or that one year his mom spent an entire eleven months taking confectionary-making classes, just so she could say she made the fancy chocolate table centrepiece herself.

Suffice to say, as soon as she realised Becca had about as much skill and interest in cooking as Bucky had in practicing law, she made sure at least one of her offspring benefitted from her lifetime of hard-won knowledge.

But what’s new for Bucky, is having someone who actually appreciates him using it.

It’s funny really… how being a househusband has always been the absolute bottom of his priority list, but watching Steve tuck into his home-cooking suddenly has Bucky yearning for the domesticity of a shared life. Entertaining fantasies of cuddling up together beneath the waffle blanket on his couch back in Brooklyn, watching trashy romantic movies and sharing ice cream through the long dark days of winter…

Which is how Bucky knows—if he didn’t already—that he’s got it bad for Steve.

Outside, the evening turns cold and clear with the setting of the sun. It’s not quite frost weather, but it’s cool enough there’ll probably be a good coating of dew tomorrow morning. And, thin as the tent is, the temperature inside it gradually lowers to match the surrounding environment as the night goes on.

Sometime around midnight, Bucky finds himself shivering in his sleeping bag.

He rolls from one side to the other, curling into himself to try and conserve enough heat to get back to sleep. Until he obviously irritates the shit out of Steve anyway, who must be able to feel every little movement Bucky’s making through the medium of their shared bed.

“Hey Bucky…” he whispers softly. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Bucky snaps, annoyed to have woken up Steve, too. “I’m cold.”

“Oh…”

Steve seems to digest this information, quiet for so long Bucky actually thinks he might have fallen asleep again.

Then, he clears his throat. “Well… I guess we could zip the sleeping bags together. Mine’s a lot warmer than yours, so uh… if we shared, you’d probably be okay.”

He says it rapid-fire, running the words at the end together as though he’s nervous. 

Bucky’s heart feels like it stops entirely. Sharing a sleeping bag with Steve? Sweet Jesus, the thought alone sends the blood rushing beneath his skin. Does he even possess that kind of self-control?

“Bucky?”

Oh God… the way Steve says Bucky’s name in that low sexy voice of his...

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ …

Mouth dry, Bucky manages to croak out a slightly breathless reply. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

_Nice? Really Bucky?_

He almost loses a hysterical laugh. More like a wet dream come true…

Within seconds Steve has a flashlight switched on. Bucky scrambles out of his sleeping bag, hoping like hell the erection of the century isn’t too fucking obvious beneath his boxer-briefs.

Luckily, Steve makes quick work of joining their bags together, never quite making proper eye contact. It’s probably for the best, all things considered. Especially since Bucky has half an idea he’s looking at Steve much the same way a lion looks at dinner. Maybe even drooling as much too.

When it’s done Steve lets him climb in first, switching off the light before quickly slipping in behind. Then there’s nothing but the dark, and the quiet breathing of two people who are very much not asleep. Bucky can’t really explain how he knows, other than that Steve’s breaths sound a little too controlled. Tighter and more shallow than they usually are. 

Admittedly, Bucky can sympathise. He currently has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting back to sleep, knowing that Steve is right there next to him. Separated by nothing more than thin air and an insurmountable barrier of propriety.

“Hey Bucky…”

The rhythm of Bucky’s heart kicks up a notch. Around them, the night is silent, waiting. 

“Yeah?” he whispers.

“Are you warm enough now?”

The truthful answer should be yes. With Steve’s thicker sleeping bag draped over him, his own beneath, and the heat of two bodies within, Bucky is pretty comfortable.

But he also kind of wants to see what happens if he throws Steve a curveball…

“Mmmm, my feet are still cold.”

There’s a breathy sound he’s pretty sure is Steve laughing. Asshole.

But before Bucky can start slinging around accusations to that effect, Steve shifts like he’s rolling over. A warm hand settles cautiously along Bucky’s middle, exerting a gentle, irresistible pull backwards.

“C’mon and bring your cold feet over here then. I’ll warm them up.”

And with Steve making an offer like that, who is Bucky to refuse?

He scoots the short distance across the bed, pressing his back comfortably against Steve’s fully- clothed chest. Making a funny throaty rumble, Steve wraps an arm around him, letting Bucky tuck his not-so-cold feet against his legs and snuggle in nice and close.

It’s glorious. Steve’s like a goddamn furnace, which is great, because Bucky’s always been a terrible heat leech, much to the disdain of his past boyfriends. Plus, he holds Bucky against him like he was always meant to be there.

“How’s that?” he whispers.

“Mmmm,” Bucky offers by way of intelligent reply.

“I’m gonna assume that means good.”

“Yes Steve, it’s good.”

Steve actually has the audacity to chuckle. “Good, ‘cause I’d hate for you to have cold feet…”

Honestly, Bucky is sorely tempted to kick him in the shins for being such a smartass. If either of them has the right to be making jokes about cold feet, it’s sure as hell not Steve. Not when Bucky has been so blatantly obvious about his interest, and Steve’s the one with hang ups. Or at least, Bucky’s pretty sure he is. Because given half the chance, Bucky would have had Steve in bed like this on their very first night. Preferably with a lot less clothing, too.

Still would, if Steve were offering. Which, regrettably, it doesn’t seem like he is.

Bucky rolls his eyes, sniping waspishly, “Go to sleep, Steve.”

It just makes Steve laugh all over again, judging from the way he shakes silently against Bucky’s back. But any further objection Bucky could make is resoundingly silenced when Steve tucks his chin into the curve of Bucky's shoulder, breath tickling the side of his neck. It raises hypersensitive goosepimples there, and an electric current that buzzes beneath his skin like a living thing.

Suddenly, Bucky can’t help but be aware of every little movement Steve’s making.

_Fuck…_

He wakes to the sound of his alarm for the first time since leaving New York. Flailing an arm out of bed, he reaches to turn it off, only then realising he’s still all wrapped up in—

_Steve._

Bucky’s eyes fly open. Steve’s already awake, watching him with a funny soft expression that makes him feel weak at the knees. His hair is gorgeously tousled, and it takes every ounce of self-control Bucky has not to reach out and run his fingers through it.

“Morning,” Steve says, the soft hint of a smile flitting across his lips. “How’d you sleep?”

Of course, there are a myriad of sensible answers Bucky could give. Anything that doesn’t sound like he’s thirsting hopelessly after his travel companion, for a start. But frankly, curled up this close to Steve, good sense isn’t really a consideration Bucky’s brain has any spare capacity for. 

“Oh you know… good,” he says, a little breathless. “Turns out I did miss the air bed after all…”

It’s the highlight of his day, watching the way Steve’s cheeks flush a gorgeous spring-blossom pink. He ducks his head, like he’s hiding a smile, before admitting quietly, “Me too.”

But if Bucky was hoping to spark any kind of discussion about the fact that two so very obviously not straight men slept an entire night in the same bed, spooning one another, he’s sorely disappointed. As far as Steve is concerned, it seems like what happens in bed, stays in bed. He rises quickly, puttering around the tent and preparing for the day ahead as though absolutely nothing out of the ordinary has happened. It leaves Bucky feeling a little hollow.

But there isn’t time for him to sulk about the finer points of their sleeping arrangements, or Steve’s confusing hot and cold attitude towards him. They have to get moving to make the early shuttle bus that will take them to the beginning of the track they’re walking today. 

Steve squashes their gear into a huge pack along with food, water and a first aid kit. It looks like he’s bringing half an outdoors shop with him, but after they disembark the bus, Bucky begins to see why.

The terrain is rugged and unforgiving; a vast landscape of jumbled dark stones with strange undulations and shapes that make it clear they were once a living, moving thing, flowing down the valley from the towering peaks above before freezing in place forever. Even tussock struggles to grow, ceding its hold to mosses, lichens and tiny clumps of wiry grass that sprout from sheltered cracks in the rock.

The higher they climb, the more the vegetation thins out, until the landscape is little but jagged outcroppings of ash-grey stone and loose scoria, stark in the morning light. There’s a distinct chill in the air, borne on a light breeze that skips around the valley, finding its way into every little gap in Bucky’s clothing. 

Above it all, ever watchful, stands the mountain.

It’s Mordor through and through, curiously beautiful in spite of its desolation. There’s nothing evil about the landscape. Just a raw demonstration of nature’s power in a place refreshingly devoid of human influence.

For a time the track ascends a wide valley, before switching back on itself and starting a near vertical climb appropriately named the ‘Devil’s Staircase.’ Only minutes in, Bucky finds himself breathless, with muscles he didn’t even know he had burning unpleasantly in his legs.

It’s really hard fucking work.

Definitely not something any number of mornings spent on the treadmill at the gym could have prepared him for. Which makes him glad Steve’s the one carrying their pack, sure-footed and undaunted by it as he seems to be.

All around them, a steady stream of other tourists forms an ant trail winding up the mountain, drawn by the postcard-perfect weather on offer. People progress at different rates, some overtaking, others dropping back, and all interacting with a good-natured friendliness that sees them stepping aside to make room for others on the narrow path. Some stop entirely beside the track, breaking out sandwiches or flasks of hot drinks. 

More than a few cast envious glances at Steve as he strides by, barely out of breath despite keeping up a near-constant commentary for Bucky. Those people Bucky stares daggers at, just to make sure they know, in no uncertain terms, that Steve is already spoken for. 

For his part, Steve keeps up his steady, oblivious pace. “I read somewhere that back when Lord of the Rings first came out, fans bought replicas of the One Ring just to throw them into the crater of Mount Ngauruhoe,” he says, looking over his shoulder to gauge Bucky’s reaction to this particular piece of trivia.

Bucky glances up at the mountain in question—all loose scree slopes and dauntingly steep vertical incline—at least twice the height of what they’re currently climbing. It looks like Mount Everest by comparison.

“People climb that thing?” he asks in disbelief.

“Oh, yeah.” Steve nods. “They used to anyway. But it’s actually pretty sacred to the local Māori here, so now they ask that people don’t, out of respect.”

“Oh.”

Another thought occurs to Bucky.

“Wait… people had replicas of the One Ring?”

The expression Steve adopts is adorably nerdy, which truth be told, suits Bucky just fine. Better than fine, even.

“A jeweller in Nelson made the original movie prop,” Steve says knowledgeably. “Ever since then, they’ve made replicas and other custom rings with elvish writing on them for engagements and stuff. I don’t think they’re cheap though. Personally, I wouldn’t just throw one away like that…”

Custom-made elvish engagement rings? Bucky might have just died and gone to fandom heaven. Could there _be_ anything more romantic?

“That’s so cool!” he babbles, bouncing on his heels with excitement as he totally forgets himself. “I’d definitely want one of those if I was ever getting married.”

Steve looks back, a funny little quirk to his lips that makes Bucky feel distinctly weightless inside, like he’s floating across the ground.

“I uh… obviously wouldn’t throw it into a volcano though,” he clarifies, as though that might be in doubt.

That makes Steve chuckle. He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I can’t imagine your other half would be very impressed if you did.”

Bucky makes a disparaging noise. “My last other half would never have done anything remotely that thoughtful. His head was way too far up his own ass.”

There’s a brief pause.

“You clearly haven’t found the right guy then,” Steve says quietly.

His tone is either a little too far on the side of deliberately light, or Bucky’s dopamine-addled brain is attributing meaning to it that doesn’t actually exist.

It’s not like he hasn’t had this debate with Becca numerous times. She thinks romance is stupid, whereas Bucky, no matter how sceptical he might be, can never quite shake the desire for his own Hallmark happily ever after. To the extent that it’s kind of pathetic, even in his own opinion.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says wistfully. “I just wish he’d stop taking his sweet fucking time.”

Steve smiles warmly, gaze a little distant as he continues up the track. “Good things take time.”

That might well be true, but frankly, Bucky’s never had that kind of patience. Maybe that’s why he keeps ending up with assholes like Brock. Whereas Steve, on the other hand, doesn’t seem like the kind of person to rush into anything he isn’t a hundred percent committed to.

Bucky’s still dwelling on it when they finally reach the top. There, Steve waves a hand in front of his face, getting his attention before pointing out the view.

It’s breath-taking.

A clear line of sight back down the valley they’ve come up, framing crystal clear green plains to the west, all the way out to a distant glittering sea. Beside it stands another snow-capped volcano, easily as tall as the one they’re standing on. It’s definitely worth the climb.

But in the other direction… Bucky groans. Behind them, a flat expanse of muddy crater leads to yet another steep rocky slope, beyond which the track continues unmistakeably up.

His shoulders sag. “I thought we were at the top already.”

“Yeah. Nah.” Steve shakes his head. “There’s still further to go. But why don’t we take a break here first?”

Since Bucky’s legs are starting to feel a certain comradeship with jello, he’s only too happy to agree.

They find a quiet spot just off the track, in sight of the view, and settle onto a couple of jagged rocks that poke Bucky in very uncomfortable places. Steve pulls a thermos out of his pack and pours a mug of something hot and steaming. He hands it to Bucky.

It’s coffee. Black, strong and exactly the pick-me-up Bucky needed. Especially with a metric fuck-ton of sugar added.

Steve looks mournfully into his own mug, grimacing as he takes a sip. 

Watching him, Bucky laughs. If there’s one thing he’s learnt over the past week, it’s just how much Steve hates coffee.

“Why didn’t you bring tea? Or just hot water?” he asks, amused.

“I um…” Steve makes a face like Bucky’s just suggested something revolutionary. “There was only one thermos. And it was very early in the morning. And uh… I know you like coffee.”

“But you hate it,” Bucky points out.

Steve shrugs. “That didn’t seem important at the time.”

Smothering an unintentional smile behind his cup, Bucky curses whatever god decided to torture him with Steve. A man who actually listens, and cares about his likes and dislikes enough to forgo his own preferences. He’s the Samwise to Bucky’s Frodo—a loyal companion to keep his spirits up on their long journey with sustenance and good humour.

Although, Sam and Frodo were totally gay. Like… certifiably. Which Bucky knows, because watching them gave twelve year old him _questions_ that neither of his parents wanted to answer.

Thank God he lived in New York, where you pretty much couldn’t toss a baseball without hitting a pride flag. It turned out to be all the education he needed. Especially after he started sweet-talking his way into gay bars early in his college years...

Steve rummages around in their pack, tossing Bucky a bag of dried fruit, nuts and chocolate pieces.

“Scroggin,” he says.

“Trail mix,” Bucky returns, eschewing Steve’s heathen terminology.

“Rules are you can’t only pick out the chocolate, you have to eat the rest too.”

“Rules are dumb,” Bucky opines, selectively pulling out a couple of larger bits of chocolate and stuffing them in his mouth, just to watch the way Steve smiles, like he knew that was going to happen.

The day is just starting to heat up, the sun beating down on the exposed terrain like an open oven, justifying Steve’s dogged insistence on sunscreen. It really does feel hotter in New Zealand. Bucky strips off his upper clothing layer, stretching out his stiff limbs one by one and shuddering as the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt meets the surrounding air. _Ugh_. By the end of today, he’s going to be hanging out for a shower. How on earth do people do multi-day hikes, staying in basic huts without any of the comforts of home? They must feel disgusting by the end of it…

Not that Steve seems to care. Not with the way he’s looking at Bucky right now—all intense and obvious enough to make Bucky feel self-conscious.

It’s fucking confusing, if he’s being honest. He knows now that Steve’s into guys, and as far as he can tell that includes him. Yet, for some reason, he’s still holding out on Bucky. Keeping him at arm’s length in a weird sort of friend zone. One that includes long lingering looks, taking an interest in Bucky’s personal life, and now, spooning him in bed. Then acting like it didn’t happen.

It makes Bucky think of what Sam said in Gisborne. That Steve’s had a “lot on his plate” this year and Bucky should go easy on him. Which is to say, there must be something that Bucky doesn’t know about Steve yet. It’s the only explanation.

And, intractable and difficult as Bucky is, it only makes him all the more determined to figure it out.

They leave their rest spot, striking out across the moonscape crater, thick with muddy clay that sticks to Bucky’s boots, weighing them down. Despite the flatness of the terrain, it makes his feet feel unwieldy and about a hundred pounds heavier than they actually are. When they finally reach the slope on the far side, Bucky follows Steve’s lead and kicks the mud off against a rock.

Thankfully, the second climb is much shorter than the first, even if it’s not exactly what Bucky would deem ‘easy.’ But the view from the top is spectacular. A sweeping unspoilt horizon, gin-clear from one sparkling coast to another, as though they’re standing on top of the world. Easily as good as the outlook from the tallest New York skyscrapers.

But, unlike a skyscraper, there happens to be a disconcerting red-hued crater, like a giant open gash in the earth, right beside this view.

Bucky’s literally staring into the heart of a volcano, he realises.

In fact, everything around here looks like the earth spewed it out over the landscape. There are small craters, big craters, porous rocks, steam, and several unnaturally turquoise lakes glittering just down the hill. Ngauruhoe looks close enough to reach out and touch.

Steve gives him a high-five. “That’s the hard part done,” he says. “It’s mostly downhill from here.”

But if Bucky thought the downhill part was going to be easier, he was wrong. It’s loose rock and scrambling that absolutely kills his calves. Even so, the payoff is pretty neat. They arrive next to the shallow lakes, each one sparkling with a different shade of emerald or turquoise that wouldn’t look out of place on a Caribbean island.

Something tells Bucky you probably wouldn’t want to swim in them though.

There’s a sign nearby warning of flying rocks, and cautioning people against stopping. So naturally, every tourist, including Bucky, has to stop and get a photo next to it. He sends his to Becca. She asks if he’s actually lost his mind. “Only a little,” he tells her, trying not to think too much about Steve.

From there, the track leads them past a deep blue lake, then down the far side of the mountain. It passes not far from another steaming vent that, according to Steve, erupted only a few years ago, in the middle of the day, with hikers all over the mountain. The footage is on YouTube, he says.

“Do you even know what that is?” Bucky asks, the crooked slant to his mouth obviously betraying him.

“Oh, ha-ha,” Steve replies, sarcastic but clearly still amused.

It’s late afternoon by the time they reach the last part of the walk, descending through deep, dense beech forest, soft with leaf litter and moss underfoot. Finally, it spills them out into a car park where the shuttle bus soon picks them up.

They arrive back at the campground, exhausted, dirty and sore. 

Steve eases the pack off his shoulders with a groan, rubbing at his obviously stiff muscles. It makes Bucky feel a little bad, even though he knows Steve would never have let him carry it, even if he’d asked. He’s stubborn like that.

“How do you feel about another hot pool?” Steve asks, looking hopeful.

He might as well ask what Bucky’s opinion on chocolate coated coffee beans is.

“Oh God, that would be so nice…” Bucky moans.

As a result, after dinner, they end up half an hour’s drive away, soaking in another steaming private pool.

It’s small and oval shaped, not nearly as nice as the one in Matamata, surrounded as it is by bland concrete that reminds Bucky rather unpleasantly of a cheap public swimming pool. But compared to the noise and chaos of the shared outdoor pool, he still prefers it. Having Steve all to himself, able to converse at a normal volume. Plus, the way the scalding water eases the tension from his aching muscles leaves him feeling satiated and a little sleepy, which is nice.

At the opposite end of the pool, Steve reclines, arms splayed along its edges in a way that shows off his chest. Not that Bucky’s enjoying the view or anything…

Okay, but like… of course he is. He’s not an idiot. He can appreciate fine art when he sees it.

Those smooth lines of muscle that make up Steve’s body belong in a goddamn museum. As do his gorgeous sculpted abs, ridiculous pecs and the attractive pink nipples Bucky still wants to get his mouth all over. He wonders if they’re sensitive or not. If they’d harden beneath his tongue if he got Steve horny as hell.

It’s frankly criminal he hasn’t been allowed to find out yet. After all, is it really too much to ask to be absolutely wrecked by your unreasonably attractive bisexual road trip buddy?

All of that is to say, in the presence of a semi-naked Steve, Bucky’s brain is about as classy as a cheap porno. 

His face radiates heat, as though there’s too much blood in it, which is funny, because Bucky could swear there’s actually too much blood in an entirely different part of him right now. He mimics Steve, raising his arms out of the pool to cool down, searching for anything that might lift his mind out of the gutter it’s currently thriving in.

“So…” he begins, not entirely sure where he’s going, but hoping it’s someplace well removed from where he is now. “Is there someone looking after your farm while you’re away?”

“Yeah.” Steve brightens. “My neighbour. He’s an Aussie, but I don’t hold that against him. He’s a good sort. A bit odd. Has a real thing about hammers.”

Bucky digests this.

“And how long have you owned it? The farm?”

Steve scoops up a handful of water, watching it trickle slowly off his fingertips. “It’s a family thing… so all my life, I guess. It was Dad’s, and my grandfather’s before him. All the way back to my great-great-grandfather who bought it off the government after being sent home wounded from the First World War.”

It’s not quite a family history to rival Bucky’s, but it is long enough to know the place must mean a lot to Steve. People get attached to stuff they’ve had that long. The Barnes’ would know.

“What about you?” Steve asks, watching Bucky with cautious interest. “Sam seemed to reckon your family was pretty well-known in New York or something.”

Bucky groans. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one learning things from Sam in Gisborne.

But the finer points of his heritage and money are not necessarily things he wants to talk about with Steve. There’s something nice to leaving it all behind in New York, and just being plain old Bucky here. Without the Barnes name and all the trappings—the expectations, misconceptions and assumptions.

“I mean, we’re one of those society families I suppose,” he concedes. “The ones people used to read about in the newspapers back in the day. And Dad’s always going on about how we can trace our lineage back to the founding fathers or something. But I’m pretty sure he just says that to make us sound more important than we are.”

“Sounds fancy,” Steve says, like he really has no idea if it is or isn’t.

Bucky rubs a hand over his face. “Uh… I guess.”

There’s a smile that looks like trouble on Steve’s face though, and Bucky dreads what it means.

“I mean… it explains why you didn’t know how to put up a tent,” Steve continues, probably because he knows it’ll get a good reaction from Bucky. “If you grew up living in a huge mansion…”

“Hey!” Bucky objects, flicking water at him. “I’ll have you know I live in a completely normal shoebox apartment in Brooklyn, and I did actually go camping once before this.”

“Oh?” Steve throws his hands up to block Bucky’s cheap shot.

“It was a disaster.”

Settling comfortably lower in the water, Steve raises an eyebrow. “This I have to hear.”

“Ugh…” Bucky lifts his feet off the tiled bottom of the pool, letting the buoyancy of the water carry him. He stares up at the roof. It’s one way to stop staring at the elegant line of Steve’s shoulders and neck, where they emerge from the water glistening and flushed red like he imagines they might be after certain… _other_ activities.

He clears his throat. “Well, that year Mom and Dad got the crazy idea they wanted to take me and Becca camping in the Canadian Rockies. Maybe it was the in-thing at the time… I don’t know. Anyway, they bought this huge canvas tent, flew us over there, hired a car, and drove out to a beautiful deserted lake in the middle of nowhere. We set up a campfire, fished, and cooked s’mores and everything... it was like Boy Scouts 101. Definitely a five out of five for effort.”

“But?”

“ _But_ … the thing neither Dad or Mom realised was that it was the right time of year for the local bears to be fattening up before hibernation. They didn’t know not to store food in our tent.”

Steve’s eyes widen in disbelief. “No…”

Bucky snickers, effortlessly adjusting his float angle with fingertips anchored at the pool’s edge. “Yes. And I can honestly tell you there’s nothing more terrifying than having a four-hundred pound bear rip into your bedding looking for the Oreos you stashed beneath your pillow.”

“Oh my God,” Steve says, eyebrows disappearing into the wispy hair that's falling across his forehead.

“Tell me about it. There were a lot of prayers uttered. Dad even swore, which he never does, and Mom ran out of the tent clutching one of her high heels like she was hoping she could use it as a weapon… Meanwhile this big fat bear just ignored us and chowed down on every scrap of food it could find. We hid in the car until it got bored, then packed up what was left of the tent and got the hell out of Dodge.”

Steve looks utterly enthralled. But Bucky supposes that for him, the idea is a novelty. Not something he’s ever had to worry about, given the complete lack of dangerous wild animals here.

“After that, we rented a log cabin,” Bucky continues, not really thinking far enough ahead to filter what comes next. “It wasn’t the same, though. I think Mom blamed Dad for not bothering to do enough research enough to know better. They had a huge argument that night, after they thought Becca and I were asleep. He flew home the next morning. Mom tried to carry on afterwards, but it wasn’t really the same. We never had another holiday like it. I don’t think my parents could stand to be alone together long enough to do it.”

Funny how an anecdote meant to be humorous could so quickly become devoid of humour.

“Oh…” Steve says, an edge of concern creeping onto his face.

Granted, maybe Bucky does sound a little spiteful about it. It’s not like he set out to overshare the joys of a loveless marriage. But it’s hard not to when the issue feels as close to home as it does. Because—save for one ill-timed redundancy and a naturally irascible temper—it could have been him.

Still could… if his parents have their way.

Moody, he sinks his feet back to the bottom and looks down at the water, feeling a familiar spike of irritation rising in his stomach at the thought of Brock. “There’s a lot to be said for money and a comfortable life. At least, that’s what Mom’s always told me. Along with all that stuff about keeping up appearances.”

It’s hard to say, but there might be an indication of how Steve feels about that sentiment in the way his lips press into a thin line. 

But Bucky’s on too much of a roll to stop now. Like an express train hurtling through a station to some inevitable damning destruction. His own, probably. “I don’t think they hate each other,” he concludes. “Not exactly. But they’re not going to be taking any road trips together any time soon.”

Still though, Steve says nothing.

Bucky can’t exactly blame him for it—what’s he supposed to say to an admission like that?

Finally, after a way-too-long moment of silence, Steve clears his throat, offering quietly, “Well… my parents only did it once.”

And Bucky, the idiot he is, walks straight into what comes after.

“They looked so happy though,” he says wistfully, thinking back to the photo album. “Like they were really in love.”

One side of Steve’s mouth rises, a touch wry. “I guess that’s because they were. I mean… you keep wondering why I like Fleetwood Mac so much. It’s because one of my earliest memories as a kid is how, after he used to think I was asleep, Dad would play the song Sara on the record player and dance Mum around the lounge to it. He’d sing, she’d drop whatever she was doing and kick off her shoes so he could take her in his arms. There’d be half-washed dishes in the sink, or unfolded laundry all over the couch, but whenever he called she’d come, smiling and happy like he was her whole world.” He sighs, expression wistful. “I used to love seeing them… so much I’d even sneak out of bed to watch. She called it their song. Said the first time he sang it to her, she knew he was the one.”

Bucky groans, some long-neglected part of him stirring with longing and jealousy. What he wouldn’t give for a love story like that of his own…

“It sounds like something straight out of a romance movie,” he laments.

An unexpected sadness seeps into Steve’s expression. He looks down. “Yeah. Things didn’t really end that way, though.”

Bucky frowns, suddenly on edge. “What do you mean?”

Steve’s mouth twists. “Dad died when I was seven. A drunk driver crossed the centreline and hit his car on the way home from Wanaka one night. By the time the emergency services arrived, it was too late. Mum was left with a farm and a young kid to take care of on her own.”

_Oh… shit…_

“Steve…” Bucky breathes.

Steve meets his eyes again. “Not exactly a fairy-tale ending, huh?”

It’s gut-wrenching, and it’s written all over his face.

Sympathy rises in Bucky’s chest, a sharp ache he doesn’t know what to do with. He’s not sure what’s worse—never having found love to begin with, or having found it only to lose it so soon. 

Gently, he nudges Steve’s foot, trying to convey even a fraction of what he feels, but inevitably falling far short. “Sometimes life is just shitty.”

It’s not anywhere near consolation enough, but there’s nothing that could be. Not for something like this.

As though dragging himself back from a million miles away, Steve sighs, offering Bucky what’s obviously a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. Sometimes it really is.”

It’s hard to tell whether he appreciates the sentiment, or if he’s just being polite.

Thankfully, by the time they get back to the tent, Steve seems to have shaken the mood off, returning to his usual easygoing self.

With a meaningful look Bucky’s way, he peels off his old sweater, eyes flicking down to their still-joined sleeping bags and back before he remarks, too-light, “You know… I think it’s going to be another cold night tonight…”

Bucky’s stomach executes a dizzy flip.

Goddamn, he’s tempted to be a little shit about it though. Since Steve spent all day acting like they didn’t sleep in the same bed last night. As though it didn’t mean a thing. It’s just too bad that this fight comes down to Bucky’s dick versus his ego, because on that count, his dick’s definitely winning.

Climbing straight into bed he grins up at Steve, sweeping a cluster of soft curls off his forehead and mustering his best gay ‘come-hither’ expression.

“I guess you’d better come keep me warm, then.”

It works. Steve’s chest rises and falls briefly, expression torn, as though he’s debating against his better judgement. But, in short order, he gives in.

And this time, when he slides in behind Bucky, there’s no uncertainty to it. Straight away he drapes an arm over Bucky’s middle, nosing into his shoulder blades like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The quiet contented sigh he releases when Bucky snuggles against him, too, sets all the butterflies in Bucky’s stomach in motion again.

Goddamn Steve Rogers.

He’s quickly becoming the root-cause of every single problem Bucky has, which was definitely not the plan when Bucky booked an ill-advised vacation overseas to escape all his problems.

Now, if Bucky’s got ninety-nine problems, Steve Rogers is like… ninety-eight of them, minimum.

And the worst part is, he wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * The walk Steve and Bucky do is called the “Tongariro Crossing” which is probably the most popular one day walk in NZ. It’s located in Tongariro National Park, a world heritage site, and the fourth national park to be established in the world (in 1887).
>   * Mount Tongariro and Ngauruhoe are located right next to each other, while Ruapehu (where the Chateau and campground are) stands slightly further south. Tongariro is part of one of my favourite Māori legends, probably the first one I remember learning at school. You can read about it [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Taranaki_legend). The other mountain in the story, Taranaki, is the one you can see from Tongariro on a good day, out on the west coast.
>   * All three mountains are active volcanoes. Ngauruhoe last erupted in 1977, Tongariro in 2012, and Ruapehu’s most spectacular recent eruption was in 1995/96, but it goes off about once every 10 years on average. We also ski on it. Hopefully not at the same time XD
>   * New Zealand has no dangerous wild animals like bears or wolves. There are no snakes, and we only have one native poisonous spider. It’s endangered and doesn’t like being near people anyway. A few Aussie imports have managed to cross the Tasman Sea in recent years, so apparently there’s a growing population of redbacks in Central Otago. But for the most part, you don’t need to worry about the wildlife when you’re outdoors. Unless maybe it’s a Weka trying to eat your lunch, or a Kea ripping bits off your car...
> 



	10. Your Man From December

“Okay, so dairies…” Bucky begins.

“What about them?” Steve asks, with the expression of someone who can guess exactly where this discussion is going, and dreads having to defend his country’s honour yet again.

“Why are they called that? It’s weird. They don’t just sell dairy products.”

A car flies past the ute from behind, travelling so fast even Bucky can tell it’s probably speeding. Straight into oncoming traffic too. In fairness, it’s a terrifyingly common practice here. Something to do with an aversion to building passing lanes, which means people use any long straight stretch of road for that purpose instead.

“Idiot,” Steve mutters, scowling as the car swerves back into the lane in front of them.

They’re somewhere south of Gisborne after having spent another night dropping Sam’s gear back to him and sleeping apart again, much to Bucky’s chagrin.

How far south though, Bucky couldn’t say. He supposes he could probably look it up, but that would take effort, and taunting Steve into defending the virtues of his country is a far more entertaining pastime. If only because Steve takes it so seriously.

“How did they get that name?” Bucky presses.

Steve’s pretty quick to catch on though. “How did bodegas get _their_ name?” he returns, an unmistakeably amused slant to his brows.

Without missing a beat, Bucky affects superiority. “That’s easy. Immigrants brought it with them and it caught on. So back to the dairies…”

Steve looks like he’s about to roll his eyes, but clearly he’s already judged—correctly—that he’s not going to win this fight. That it’s easier to just give Bucky what he wants.

“I think they started by selling dairy products then expanded.”

“But they’re the same thing, right?” Bucky says.

“If you mean an owner-operated convenience store with a really generic sounding name, that probably has lollies collecting dust on a back shelf somewhere, then yes,” Steve agrees.

Bucky nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Satisfied that no matter how far apart New York and New Zealand might be geographically, they at least share a common culture around hole-in-the-wall convenience stores, Bucky settles back, letting the breeze from the open window dance through his hair.

They’ve got a decent drive today, for New Zealand anyway. A little over six hours on the road from Gisborne to Wellington, the capital of the country. Steve’s even threatened to give Bucky a driving lesson on the way—though honestly, between driving stick and having to stick to the left-hand side of the road, Bucky thinks it’s probably a lost cause. Not that he minds Steve trying. It’s sweet he’s even willing to take the time.

“So…” Steve says, slowing down as they pass through yet another town. “What’s New York like at this time of year?”

Bucky snorts. “Cold? Dark? Depressing?”

That gets him a laugh, at least.

“Okay, but does it really look like the movies?” Steve asks, with an endearing innocence and curiosity Bucky can’t resist. “With all the Christmas lights and stuff?”

Of course Steve would bring up Christmas lights. One of the few parts of the season Bucky actually likes. Along with novelty drinks containing far too much sugar.

But the way he talks about it—like it’s more of a fictional place than a real life city—makes Bucky wonder if to Steve, New York is a lot like Middle-earth. Somewhere that doesn’t quite seem real. 

“Yeah, I mean… I guess it does,” he concedes. “We do have ice rinks and Christmas trees and fairy lights. And the big department stores always go overboard with decorations. I guess it’s kind of nice.”

“Does it snow?” Steve says.

Bucky smiles. Now he knows Steve’s watched one too many movies.

“Not very much in December,” he says. “I can really only remember a couple of times it actually snowed on Christmas Day. Most of the snow comes later, in January and February.”

Steve looks wistful. “I always wanted to experience a white Christmas. Kind of hoped I’d see one while I was in London, but apparently it’s not that common there either.”

Which is funny, because a white Christmas pretty much sounds like Bucky’s worst nightmare. Shlepping all the way across a cold and damp borough with his family’s presents in tow, just because that’s what’s socially expected of him…

He tosses his head dismissively. “If it helps, I don’t think you’re missing much. It mostly just causes gridlock and disrupts all the public transport. Then a day or so later it melts into a huge slushy mess that gets all through your boots no matter what you do. And by then it’s probably full of dog piss as well…”

Steve laughs, much the same way he always does when Bucky’s being a grouchy shit about anything. Like he doesn’t mind it. “You’re really selling it,” he says, blue eyes sparkling with humour.

And God… if that doesn’t get Bucky’s stomach doing all sorts of loopy roller-coaster manoeuvres. “I don’t know…” he says, looking away to try and preserve the dignity he doesn’t seem to possess anymore. “I guess I’m looking forward to spending Christmas in summer. It seems so strange. All back to front. But the fact it’s actually warm enough to be outside is nice.”

“It’s hard to imagine it _not_ being warm,” Steve says, glancing at a passing road sign that offers directions to Wellington. Not that he probably needs to, because all the roads in this part of the country seem to lead to Wellington. “Or… not hard, I guess,” he continues, looking thoughtful. “Since seasonal movies are nearly always set in the Northern Hemisphere. But they’ve always felt slightly surreal to me. All that sitting around by a fire, in tacky Christmas themed jumpers with a big roast dinner, eggnog, fairy lights and snow…”

The way he says it makes Bucky wonder what a Christmas is _without_ those things.

“What do you do for Christmas around here, then?” he asks, curious.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

Steve screws up his nose adorably. “Well there’s a rule about Christmas and New Year here, and it’s that one of them is always going to be a washout. Usually it’s some ex-tropical cyclone that comes down from the Pacific and makes everything wet, humid and gross for a few days. But if it’s a nice year and the weather’s sunny, people usually do stuff outdoors. Go camping maybe, or just throw open every door and window in the house and host a big family barbeque. It’s not unusual to spend all afternoon drinking until you’re sunburnt and a bit silly. Then, the trick is not to get eaten to death by mosquitoes when evening rolls around. And since it doesn’t get dark until nearly ten o’clock, you have to be up late if you want to see any Christmas lights.”

Bucky releases a quiet breath. It sounds amazing. A world away from the short, cold, winter days he’s used to. Where the sun struggles weakly to break through a layer of depressing overcast that makes everyone gloomy, their tempers shortening in inverse proportion to the lengthening queues at shops everywhere. 

He digs around in the ute’s centre console for more candy, trying not to smile. “I don’t know… it sounds nice.”

With scandalous disregard for the impact it has on Bucky, Steve smiles too, holding out his hand for Bucky to place a piece of candy in it. “Yeah… it is.”

It makes Bucky’s heart clench in the best possible way. Becca has always accused him of being a hopeless romantic, and yes—she’s always been one hundred percent right. But since Steve seems like he might be a bit of a hopeless romantic too, Bucky can’t help but be charmed by it.

Plus, the idea of getting drunk and silly late into a long summer’s evening with him is far too appealing. It gives Bucky all sorts of fantasies about sitting in Steve’s lap, cradled by those attractive muscled arms of his, kissing the hell out of him as the sun goes down.

Which leaves him feeling too-warm, shifting awkwardly in his seat, even though he’s never been particularly susceptible to embarrassment. But being around Steve is making him feel like a horny teenager exploring his sexuality for the first time all over again.

He places another pineapple lump in Steve’s palm, their fingers brushing across one another, lingering in a way that leaves heat unfurling in Bucky’s stomach like he’s swallowed a warm drink on a cold day. He can’t help himself, he doesn’t hurry to pull away, and neither does Steve, and _fuck_ —when he actually gives Bucky’s hand a little squeeze before he just takes the goddamn candy and puts it in his mouth…

It’s such an unexpected, familiar gesture, Bucky lets out a broken, needy noise he tries to cover by clearing his throat. Like a complete fucking love-struck idiot.

“Jesus Christ Steve, hands on the wheel much?” he snaps, a lot sharper than intended.

The bastard actually has the audacity to smile, though. One eyebrow creeps up towards his unfairly attractive hairline, like it’s mocking Bucky. Like he fucking _knows_.

“Have you ever heard the saying, people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones?” he asks, perfectly calm.

Of course, the more even-tempered Steve is, the more flustered and snappy it makes Bucky. “Of course I’ve heard it. I don’t live under a rock.”

“Good.” Steve’s mouth looks like it’s taken on a mind of its own. He pulls into a mostly-deserted supermarket carpark, lips crooked with a mirth that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as it is. “Because it’s your turn.”

“To what?” Bucky says.

“Drive.”

It feels like someone’s tipped a bucket of ice water over Bucky.

Karma’s a bitch.

_Shit._

In fairness, it’s not as bad as Bucky thought it was going to be.

It’s not good either, but at least Steve is a patient teacher. And it’s funny how when someone’s calm and collected and not screaming at Bucky, he can actually manage to be a semi-competent driver.

At least—he only tries to ram Steve’s ute into a light pole once. Maybe twice, if you count the second round of bunny-hops that got kind of close.

While Bucky hyperventilates afterwards, waiting for Steve to kick his ass and leave him in whatever small, shithole town they’re currently in, Steve hops out to inspect the front of the ute.

He returns with a shrug, apparently unconcerned. “What’s one more dent?”

Honestly, Bucky could just kiss him in relief. And like… for other reasons, obviously.

Subsequently, without every cell in his body screaming in absolute terror about the consequences of fucking up—things get much easier.

It’s like Steve said, the clutch on the ute _is_ pretty worn, so Bucky doesn’t have to be particularly delicate with the balance between it and the accelerator. Soon enough, he starts to hear when he’s not giving it enough gas—when the revs drop and a shudder courses through the metal frame—and learns to correct for it.

Manipulating the stick is a little harder. On several occasions, Bucky crunches it into the wrong gear, throwing him and Steve forward as the ute decelerates rapidly, or stalls altogether—depending on which direction he’s got the change wrong in.

But after an hour or so practice—when Bucky can finally get the ute around the parking lot with reasonable reliability—Steve declares him fit to drive on an actual road. In disbelief, Bucky stares at him, wondering if Steve’s completely lost his mind. Wondering if they both have, since he’s actually considering doing it, just because Steve thinks he can.

But, with the long muscled lines of his body balanced casually against the bed of the ute, Steve looks completely serious.

“What?” Bucky repeats, stalling for time while he tries to figure out if there’s a way to back out of this arrangement.

“I said, you can drive. If you like,” Steve clarifies, as though Bucky’s just misheard him. “I don’t know what you were worried about. You’re a good driver. Just take it easy and you’ll be fine.”

Ignoring the way that compliment makes him feel all light inside, Bucky fishes for an excuse. “Yeah, but… don’t I need a licence from here to do that?”

Steve waves his concern away. “Do you have a current licence back home?”

“Yes…”

Never mind that Bucky hasn’t used it for years.

“Then that’s all you need. I looked it up. You only have to convert from overseas if you’re here longer than a year.”

Well… there goes that excuse.

“Huh.”

There’s a weird feeling unspooling in Bucky’s stomach though. Something to do with Steve having gone out of his way to look that information up, maybe. Bucky can’t decide if it’s really cute, or if Steve’s just found a new way to torture him.

“Hey,” Steve says, with a stupid endearing smile that has Bucky thinking it’s really probably the former. “Just remember, no free turns on a red light, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And drive on the left.”

Bucky snorts, rolling his eyes like the drama queen he is. “Yes, Grandma…”

Honestly, if Steve’s going to be such a backseat driver, why are they even bothering with this?

But fuck—now Steve’s looking at him, his whole expression a little soft, mouth pulled up slightly at one side like he loves it when Bucky gives him shit…

It’s exactly the sort of look that’s in danger of causing Bucky to self-combust on the spot. Like… without exaggerating at all, he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t get his mouth on some part of Steve’s anatomy very soon, he’s going to die. Probably of unresolved sexual tension. That’s totally a thing, right?

Oblivious, Steve unfolds himself and heads to the left-hand side of the ute, tossing the keys over to Bucky. “You can take us as far as Palmerston North. After that, I’ll save you from the mess that is Wellington.”

“My hero,” Bucky quips half-heartedly after him, mostly because it feels like he has to, just to try and salvage some of his lost dignity.

It’s a failure, obviously. He knows that from the bright, uneven smile Steve gives him, that makes his insides fucking melt.

They eventually make it to Wellington late that afternoon. Bucky even manages not to kill them in the parts that he drives for, and Steve’s about as chill a passenger as he’s ever had.

Even on the multiple occasions when Bucky does accidentally crunch the gears while changing them, Steve just sits back, fiddling with the radio, or looking out the window until Bucky sorts it all out. Then, he passes Bucky a candy with a reassuring smile that looks a lot like it’s saying, _‘See? I knew you could do it,’_ which is both irritating and endearing in equal measure.

The fact of the matter is—no one’s really trusted Bucky with much before. Or done it so implicitly.

Brock was a control freak in a way that seemed charming at first. He was all over the big decisions, so Bucky didn’t have to be. Until one day, the big decisions started to become the little decisions too, and before Bucky knew it, he’d given up more of himself than he ever meant to. 

Then there was Pierce, the asshole who only ever gave a damn about Bucky’s contributions inasmuch as he felt they could boost his agency and profile, but never let him own any critical projects of his own.

And closer to home—Bucky’s parents. His dad who mostly checked out during his teenage years to focus on Becca and her career. And his mom who doesn’t even trust him to pick up his own suit from the dry-cleaners. 

Becca’s the one their parents have always believed in, and Bucky’s just… the other kid. The one who’s spent his whole adult life chasing after some impossible standard, only to fall short at every hurdle.

But Steve makes him feel like more than that. The way he assumes by default that Bucky’s capable of anything, then quietly nudges him to do it. Until it turns out that Bucky _can_ actually drive. And not only that, but drive stick, on the left-hand side of the road, halfway across the world. And climb volcanoes. And put up a tent. And surf—even if it’s badly or whatever. 

It makes Bucky realise that maybe, what he’s been waiting his whole life for, is just someone to believe in him. Without preconceptions or expectations. Someone who just asks how much he’s happy to do, then gives him the space to do it. 

Someone like Steve.

The knowledge hits him square in the chest, fire-warm, like a glowing ember by his heart. It manifests on his face in the hugely sappy grin he realises he’s directing at Steve somewhere on the road to a nowhere-place called Dannevirke. And it grows when Steve grins right back, sunlight highlighting his swept-back golden hair and the adorable crinkles around his eyes.

“Eyes on the road, Buck,” Steve says, voice dripping with the kind of mirth that sounds like glorious revenge.

He laughs when Bucky takes a hand off the wheel to swipe playfully at him, dodging it with unfortunate ease.

“Asshole,” Bucky accuses.

There’s no heat behind it though. And he knows Steve knows it, too. Something about the huge shit-eating grin on his face gives it away, probably.

Bucky drinks it in, heart skipping along to an unfamiliar rhythm. Everything feels new and off-kilter, and like he’s seeing the world in colour for the first time.

Nothing has changed obviously—the landscape around them is still just rolling hills and farmland. Clumps of feather duster-like toi toi and flax bushes sprout from the road’s edge, novel enough to remind Bucky he’s not in North America any more, but also well on their way to becoming familiar. It’s just the same old rural New Zealand he’s already spent two weeks travelling through.

But when he glances across at Steve—with his damnably sincere blue eyes, and the easy way he’s accepted Bucky into his life as though there was space for him in it all along—

It feels like somewhere, a seismic shift has taken place. The significance of it isn’t immediately apparent, but something tells Bucky that when he figures it out, it’s going to be big.

Anyway, on the topic of seismic shifts, it turns out Wellington is basically just a huge earthquake waiting to happen. The city crowds its landscape, nestling low in the hills around a natural harbour, bisected by the country’s biggest fault line as it makes the transition from North to South Island. There’s barely a square foot of flat land in the whole place, and what little does exist seems to have been reclaimed from the sea early on in the city’s development.

It’s probably the windiest place in the whole of New Zealand according to Steve, with either a gusty trampoline-endangering northerly, or frigid Antarctic southerly on any given day. Or even both in one, switching direction in a few short minutes to make the evening commute a wet misery. And that’s before you take into account the wind from all the politicians...

It’s Washington D.C., but without the pomp or grandeur. The main government building is called the ‘Beehive,’ which turns out to be an astoundingly descriptive term for a garish 1980s architectural faux pas. Next to it stands the country’s original stone parliament buildings, which are themselves utterly mundane, only large enough to house a tiny fraction of some unimportant auxiliary government department back home.

But, as Steve explains with no small measure of pride, on two separate occasions people have driven tractors up the front steps in protest. Both of them sitting politicians at the time.

It kind of goes hand in hand with the vibe of the whole place. The city’s got a quirky energy to it that reminds Bucky a bit of New York. A personality and soul—the end result of combining a bunch of liberals, creatives, and the rainbow community into one very small, very unique geographic space.

No wonder then that Wellington is the home of Lord of the Rings. Or at least, the studios that produced it. ‘Wellywood’—as the locals affectionately dub it.

They visit the Weta special effects workshop, which leaves Bucky running from one glass case to another, open-mouthed and in fandom heaven. Steve even drops him at the nearby airport while he circles the block, just so Bucky can visit the life-size giant eagles hanging above the food court, and Smaug’s sleeping head downstairs by check-in.

There’s also a waterfront to wander along, a cable car that takes them to a breezy lookout, and numerous cafes and quirky shops hidden away in laneways. A suburb called Brooklyn, too, up in the hills. Not that it looks anything like Bucky’s Brooklyn, scattered as it is with power-generating wind turbines that rotate slowly even on the calmest of days.

Overall, there’s something about the place that’s impossible not to like. But in fairness, the infamous weather does hold for the whole two days they’re there, which probably helps. Literally the only downside is that in order to be close to the centre of the city, Bucky and Steve end up staying in a backpackers, sharing a bunkroom with two people who snore. Not exactly a recipe for romance.

Partly because of that, and partly because Bucky’s kind of missing the city life, if he’s being honest, he manages to talk Steve into going out for a night the day before they leave. 

It’s probably the best idea he’s ever had.

“Bucky, come on, we’ve got to catch the early ferry in the morning. We should go back,” Steve says.

He’s doing his very best impression of a stick in the mud, but like… not very successfully. Because when Bucky—already buzzed on several drinks from the last bar—grabs his arm and tugs, pleading, “Just one more. C’mon Steve…” he gives in almost immediately, trailing Bucky down a mid-week kind of busy street. Which is to say, not busy at all.

It’s probably fair to say Bucky is more drunk than Steve, but Steve hasn’t drunk _nothing_ either, which Bucky counts as a minor victory.

Anyway, it’s a problem that should be rapidly solved by Bucky’s excellent sixth sense for decent bars and clubs, which has never once led him astray. At least, not in any way he didn’t want to be led astray.

See, the thing is, Bucky’s got a silver tongue when he puts his mind to it. One of the many benefits of a misspent youth. While his parents were busy lamenting his disinterest in studying law, and hosting dull society parties with an ever-changing line up of dull society ladies who they inevitably pushed his way, Bucky spent most of his spare time sweet-talking his way into gay bars, underage.

He might not have been old enough to drink, but he was certainly old enough for other things. And it was there, in the arms of the older men he met, that Bucky learned where his interests truly lay.

Of course, when his parents found out, nothing really changed. For all that they and Bucky didn’t see eye to eye on most things, no one could accuse them of being backward, thank God. They simply took his sexuality in their stride, and overnight, the line up of dull society ladies became a line up of eligible society bachelors, every bit as obnoxious and entitled as the women they’d replaced.

With far more diligence than he ever applied to his studies, Bucky passed them all over, one by one, much to his mom’s disgust. By the time Brock came along, she’d all but given up hope he’d ever settle down into a respectable life and marriage. Which goes some way towards explaining how pissed she was about him upping and leaving for New Zealand without trying to patch things over first.

But anyway, fuck Brock. Bucky’s here for a good time, not to dwell on the problems waiting for him back home.

Which means—when he sees a bar with a long line out the door like it’s probably a good one—he’s absolutely determined to get in.

While Steve stands at the back of the line like the responsible citizen he is, Bucky goes directly to the bouncer, playing up his New York accent.

“Hey…” he says smoothly, aiming for somewhere between innocent wide-eyed visitor to the country, and a guy who looks like he knows his way around a drink. “So I’m on vacation here from New York, and I’m trying to win over this really hot local guy who’s holding out on me. Can you help a tourist out?”

Bucky points to Steve and the bouncer glances briefly at him. Helpfully, as though on command, Steve smiles when Bucky looks his way.

Mouth twitching with obvious amusement, the bouncer turns back to Bucky, giving him a once over. Trying to judge how much trouble he’s likely to be, maybe. Not much it seems, because with an easy shrug, he steps aside. “Yeah, okay. But only because you’re a visitor and you asked so nicely.”

Bucky grins. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

The bouncer motions Steve over, remarking quietly before he arrives, “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, really meaning it.

After they enter the place, Steve turns to him, eyebrows betraying surprise. “What did you say to get us in here?”

It’s pretty hard not to laugh. Bucky fails spectacularly and ends up making some sort of vaguely choked noise instead, slapping a hand over his mouth to contain it. Wouldn’t Steve just love to know…

“Oh, nothing much,” he says when he finally manages to compose himself again. “I think he just wanted your country to make a good impression or something…”

“Oh,” Steve says, like he thinks that’s a perfectly normal reason for someone to be let into a club.

Times like these, the fact Steve grew up on a farm really shows. He’d be a nightmare in a place like New York, Bucky thinks—far too trusting and easily swayed to make it through the day without losing all his money to one dodgy scam or another.

“Come on,” he says, leading the way to the bar. “Let’s get another drink.”

The interior of the bar is softly lit, at just the right level to make both drinking and dancing appropriate, and there are people doing both. Steve grabs them a table in one of the quieter corners, and Bucky marvels again at how informal everything is in New Zealand. Judging from the upmarket furnishings, he’d have thought this place was aiming for a better class of clientele. But half the people in here are dressed like they just walked in from the gym. And the other half that _are_ dressed more formally look like they only got that way because they happened to come straight from work.

The worst part of it is, Bucky’s starting to find this all shockingly normal.

“So your sister graduated top of her class?” Steve asks, lifting his beer and taking a sip. 

Now that Bucky’s managed to get another drink or two into him, he’s actually starting to loosen up a bit. Mostly that means less time looking at his watch, and more time looking at Bucky, which is nice.

“Yeah, between us, she’s definitely the smart one,” Bucky confirms, gaze lingering on where Steve’s hand is resting on the table, well within arm’s reach. It’s tempting to try...

Eyebrows pinched into a frown, Steve taps his fingers against the varnished wood. “So let me get this straight. You have a masters degree and you worked for a huge global company, but your parents still weren’t happy?”

He looks like he can’t conceive of the idea.

Bucky laughs. With the warm buzz in his head from the alcohol, his old troubles suddenly seem a lot less pressing. “Basically. I think Becca put it best… she said we’ve never understood each other.”

“At least the two of you get along, though.”

Thinking of Becca makes Bucky recall the bet he still hasn’t admitted to losing. After all, it’s not like he really knows for _sure_ …

Sipping his frivolous cocktail, he snorts at the thought. “Yeah, we do. I mean… I hate her for setting the bar so fucking high, but it’s not really her fault. She’s just like that. She does it without trying.”

In the background, a new song comes on. Something unfamiliar, with a laid-back beat and lyrics that make Bucky think of summer. It’s obviously local, like half the music in this place, but the chorus is catchy in a way that makes him want to nod along. He makes most of the rest of his drink disappear doing just that.

From the other side of the table, Steve watches with a quirky little smile that makes Bucky feel lightheaded and silly.

“The Phoenix Foundation,” he says. “Good band. Good song.”

“Jesus—” Bucky snickers, nudging his foot beneath the table. “Don’t tell me there’s actually music you like from this century…”

It’s just as well Steve has a pretty much infinite level of patience, because Bucky can’t seem to stop giggling after he’s said it. Something about Steve’s unimpressed expression, and the way he’s such an old man. Between his ancient phone, his taste in music, and the fact he owns an actual analogue watch…

“Okay…” Steve says, snatching the cocktail from Bucky’s fingers with an expression of subtle amusement. “I think you’ve had about enough for tonight.”

Far too late, Bucky tries to grab it back. “Heeeey.”

Is he slurring his words now? Maybe. But he feels so warm and happy it doesn’t really matter.

“If you’re taking it off me, you have to finish it,” he challenges.

And, _oh fuck_ —Steve really does have broad shoulders. It’s made all the more obvious from the way he sits up straighter, one eyebrow raised, like a sexy football player who’s just been told there’s no way his team can possibly win. As though he’s determined to prove the naysayers wrong. 

He raises Bucky’s glass in toast, eyes twinkling irrepressibly. “For the record, New Yorker, I did go to university. I know how to drink.”

And with that, he tips his head back and downs the rest of the drink, followed by his own, throat working as he swallows. _Jesus fucking Christ_ —it gives Bucky some very X-rated ideas he doesn’t think he can really be blamed for…

Steve has to know how he looks. Like a smoking hot porn star who Bucky desperately wants to bang this very second.

“All right, let’s go,” Steve says, pushing both glasses across the table and standing up.

Bucky follows, stumbling a little as he rises. It’s probably a sign he has drunk too much, because the world looks awfully like it’s spinning around him right now. Obviously though, that’s the world’s problem, not Bucky’s. Maybe _it_ should stop.

“Yup… definitely enough,” Steve says, so close to Bucky’s ear it makes him shiver, and sparking a delightful ripple of electricity down his spine.

Steve’s a solid mass of muscle by Bucky’s side, and Bucky leans into him, allowing himself to be led back out onto the street towards their accommodation.

They wander down a pedestrian-only laneway with old-fashioned building facades and, hands-down, the weirdest fucking water feature Bucky’s ever seen in his life. It looks like a child’s sandpit toys had sex with a novel exhibit from the Museum of Modern Art, turning into a thing that clanks and splashes water all over the sidewalk as its buckets tip into each other. It doesn’t help that someone’s tipped bubble bath into the pool beneath it either. Doesn’t make it look any less ridiculous. More fun though, maybe.

Before Bucky can contemplate whether it’s worth trying to convince Steve into a late-night swim just to see him shirtless again, a pair of voices carry from further up the road. Two uniformed police officers are shining a flashlight up at a building.

“Excuse me, sir?” the shorter one says to a shadow that looks like it might be someone clinging to the roof. “Sir, you can’t be up there. That’s a grade one heritage building. I need you to come back down here now.”

“Yeah, get back down here,” her male partner repeats, far less authoritatively. “Safely though, of course. Safer communities together, isn’t that right O’Leary?”

A rude shout carries down from above and they glance at each other, uncertain.

“Did he just call us dick-heads?” the woman asks, frowning.

“I think so…” the man says. 

Turning back to the building, the woman cranes her neck. “Excuse me sir, you can’t just go around insulting members of the New Zealand police like that! It’s not very nice. You might hurt somebody’s feelings.”

“Yeah!” her partner agrees.

It’s the weirdest display of policing Bucky’s ever seen. And he’s from New York. Where there’s a _lot_ of weird to go around…

As they continue up the street, the cops’ bickering voices fade into the night and Bucky leans into Steve’s shoulder unsteadily. “Why is your country so _strange_?”

Steve shrugs, as though the whole event was nothing out of the ordinary. “Wellington,” he says, like that explains everything.

The city is quieter now, which probably indicates it’s fairly late. Bucky can’t be bothered to check how late, since his phone is zipped up in his pocket. It doesn’t seem like it matters much anyway. The temperature is still mild—enough for only a thin jacket—the wind is calm, and the lights of the city reflect off a low layer of scattered cloud. There are so few people around it feels like the streets belong only to him and Steve. Like the whole place does, maybe.

It’s exactly the kind of quiet New York never is, unless you happen to be out on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Otherwise there’s a crowd, no matter the time of day.

The stillness feels like magic waiting to happen.

“Hey, Steve…” Bucky taps his arm to get his attention. “Let’s go to that lookout. The one we took the photo at earlier.”

Pausing, Steve frowns, a familiar furrow settling between his eyebrows. “Mount Victoria? But it’s late...”

Making a judgemental noise to communicate precisely what he thinks of that kind of killjoy sentiment, Bucky waves his concerns away. “It’s my last night in the city. I mean… when do you think I’m ever going to be back here?”

Steve’s lips press together, expression unreadable.

“Come on,” Bucky entreats, not above begging to get what he wants. “Live a little.”

Literally the last thing he feels like doing right now is going back to their cramped bunkroom, with their snoring roommates, and the bed he doesn’t get to share with Steve.

Shoulders sinking, Steve gives in with a resigned little sigh. It sounds like he probably thinks Bucky’s impossible, and maybe a colossal idiot too, but there’s no mistaking the fondness in it either.

“Okay,” he says, attempting to look stern and failing. “But I’m getting you some water and food. Otherwise you’re really gonna regret this tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, a barely contained ball of energy with a huge grin that finally makes Steve give up the smile he’s clearly been holding back this whole time.

There’s not much open at this hour, but the Night and Day convenience store just down the road has enough to get by. And anyway, there’s nothing better than junk food when you’re drunk—in Bucky’s honest and very correct opinion, anyway. He stuffs potato chips into his mouth, humming the catchy tune from the bar as they walk.

It’s a longer distance than he thought it was going to be when he suggested it. Not insurmountable or anything, but easily long enough to take the edge off the alcohol in his veins and slow his perception of time back to a normal speed. In retrospect, it’s probably not the best idea to be wandering along the hill’s narrow sloping pathways in the dark, semi-drunk and tripping over tree-roots. 

But whatever. Bucky’s never exactly been known for his good judgement, so why start now? What’s more surprising is the fact Steve agreed to it…

After a decent climb they break out at the top and Bucky lets out a soft gasp. 

The city unfolds beneath them, its bright lights reflecting off the water of a harbour that curves around to a port on the far side, then disappears into suburbs to the north, cradled by the impenetrable inky blackness of the surrounding hills.

It’s no New York, but it’s still beautiful.

Steve makes a quietly contented noise as he takes in Bucky’s reaction. “Happy?” he asks, expression softening. There might even be dimples under his beard, though it’s impossible to tell for sure.

Nodding, Bucky plops down onto the grass above the treeline. It’s a little damp, but not cold, and it faces the city view. A few cars are still on the roads, travelling the highway that runs the flank of the bay. The air carries with it the hum of city-noise, and in the dark trees beneath them, a branch snaps. But mostly, it’s peaceful and still.

Steve sits down beside him, handing over a bottle of water.

As hints go, it’s not very subtle. _Drink your damn water or you’re going to regret it tomorrow_. But that’s typical Steve—responsible and organised to Bucky’s impulsive chaos.

And whether it’s the beauty of the view, or the alcohol still in Bucky’s blood, something in the air feels different tonight. More relaxed, like the awkward tension that’s been hanging between them ever since Bucky first jumped into Steve’s car is becoming increasingly absent. 

Oh… the undercurrent of something more is definitely still there. Bucky would still sacrifice his soul to take Steve to bed, properly. But it’s starting to feel as though, with every tiny snippet of information they share, they’re building something bigger than that.

It’s even turned into a fun game, thinking of things to ask.

Steve fixes Bucky with an easy-going smile. One that tells Bucky he’s thought of another question. “What’s your favourite place in the whole world?”

Bucky swallows a gulp of water. As much as it pains him to admit Steve was right, he’s really glad they brought some with them. Otherwise he’d be stuck feeling like he’s gargled sand.

“The _whole_ world?” he clarifies.

“Yeah.”

Bucky thinks about it. Sure, there are some pretty cool places he’s visited, both in the States and outside of it. But there’s really no place like home, is there?

“I guess it would probably be this quirky little hole-in-the-wall coffee joint in Williamsburg, near where I live,” he says. “It has this old brick interior and so many potted palm trees it’s hard to even move around for them. But the coffee’s the best in the borough. I once asked the owner how he did it. He told me he imported the beans from his cousin’s plantation in Colombia and batch-roasted them himself. That the whole thing was a family business. He looked so proud about it. I guess part of me always wished my family could be like that, too. Proud of the little things.”

If only life could be that simple…

He sighs. “They serve everything in these mis-matched second-hand cups and saucers, with those weird little collectible spoons from places all over the world. Whenever I needed my own space, I would sit by the upstairs window. In winter they put a little heater up there, and I could spend hours just watching the snow flurries sweep up the East River…”

In other words… whenever Brock got too much to handle, and Bucky couldn’t bear the silence of his apartment alone…

“That sounds nice,” Steve says, turning his water bottle over in his hands.

“Yeah… it is.”

It makes Bucky want to take him there. To show him New York—the real New York—the same way he’s showing Bucky his home.

But of course, that’s not going to happen, is it? This trip… it’s only temporary. Just a fleeting summertime thing. At the end of it, they’re both going to have to go their separate ways.

“What about you?” Bucky asks, steadfastly ignoring the feelings he’s only just beginning to realise he might have about that. “Where’s your favourite place?”

For a moment Steve is silent, features illuminated by the city’s soft glow. Then he sets his bottle aside and leans back on his hands, smiling up at the sky.

“This probably sounds clichéd, but for me, it’s the farm. No place like home I guess... I just love seeing it change with the seasons. In spring the nor’westers blow a howling gale, like they’re going to rip the roofing iron right off the shearing shed. Even did one year, actually. In summer the sun bakes the hills into a gorgeous shade of gold, and the lupins bloom in the valley. With autumn come the frosts and these perfect cold, clear, bluebird mornings where you could hear a pin drop from a kilometre away. And in winter, there’s nothing like cosying up next to the fire with a blanket and hot mug of tea while a frigid Antarctic southerly drives snow up the Dunstan Valley.” Steve lets out a wry peal of laughter. “Except when you have to go out in it all because it’s lambing season… But I was born there. It’s in my blood, I suppose.”

The way he describes it, Bucky can almost picture the place—wild, desolate and lonely. Far from civilization, but beautiful all the same.

Something catches in his chest—a squeezed too-tight feeling that spreads along his sides, taking him entirely by surprise. It makes him wish he could see it for himself. Cuddle up by the fire with Steve, drinking hot chocolate on one of those cold winter nights…

He leans against Steve. Steve—who doesn’t pull away this time. Even when Bucky rests his head on his delightfully warm, solid shoulder.

“What about love?” Bucky blurts out, without thinking. 

Surprisingly, Steve just hums, not sounding the least bit tense or unsure. “What about it?”

“Have you ever been in love?” Bucky asks, throat thick with nerves.

At first, Steve is so quiet, he almost considers retracting the question. Obviously it’s way too personal. What the hell was he even thinking—

“Yeah, I have. Once.”

The warm feeling in Bucky’s chest evaporates, giving way to an unpleasant stab of jealousy. He bets it’s the woman Steve mentioned before, from London. After all, he did say things were serious enough that he’d considered staying for good…

“What about you?”

“Huh?” Bucky frowns.

Steve turns to look at him, a gentle smile tugging his lips. “Has Bucky Barnes ever been in love?”

Transfixed by the warmth and openness in Steve’s expression, Bucky feels untethered. Knocked off-balance. For a moment, he even forgets to breathe.

“I um…” he mumbles, longing to press himself into Steve’s chest. To have Steve’s strong arms wrap him up, safe and warm, and as far as humanly possible from his memories of Brock. Instead, he lifts his head, looking out to where a late passenger ferry is making its way around to the harbour heads. “I thought I was… once. But I was an idiot.”

Steve makes a quiet noise of disagreement. “I’m sure you weren’t…”

“No… I really was.” Bucky looks down, fidgeting with his hands and wishing for any way out of this conversation other than actually having it. But he can’t avoid it forever. “I wanted something completely different to what he did, but I didn’t realise it at first. He hid so well behind a nice smile and good manners. In public, he was charming. Spent the whole first year bringing me flowers, taking me out to dinner, and making me feel like I was the most important person in his life. Then… at the staff Christmas party in our second year, I walked in on him and a colleague getting all hot and heavy against the photocopier.”

He feels, rather than sees, the way Steve shifts awkwardly beside him. “Oh… wow.”

“Yeah, I mean… I could never bring myself to use that copier again,” Bucky says, trying to inject at least a little humour into this—the biggest fuck up of his adult life. “It was terrible. I had to go down to the sixtieth floor instead. It was an extra ten minute trip every time.”

Steve lets out a snort, then slaps a hand over his mouth in horror, looking at Bucky like he’s worried he’s done something wrong.

It’s really, really fucking cute.

So much so, Bucky has to laugh. Steve relaxes then, tension bleeding from his body as he settles lightly against Bucky’s side again.

It feels good to laugh about it. Like the tight knot of bitterness Bucky’s been carrying around with him all this time is starting to unravel, somewhere deep beneath his ribs. And all it took was travelling halfway around the world and meeting Steve to do it. Almost like Steve makes it easier to put this stuff into perspective—transforming Bucky’s problems from mountains into mere road bumps. Or something like that. 

“So anyway…” Bucky says, because now he’s started it seems logical to continue. “We were on-again off-again after that. He was always going on at me about my untidy apartment and what I chose to wear, or eat, and how if I wasn’t careful I was going to put on weight like Mom.”

At that, Steve sits up straighter, looking like he’s just discovered a map to lost treasure. “That’s why you had a go at me about the burgers back in Paihia! I knew there had to be something, and I didn’t think it was me…”

Oh right… _that_. Before Bucky came to understand just how much Steve wasn’t Brock. He grimaces. “Yeah…. Sorry about that. I got so used to being defensive, I guess I just lashed out…”

It’s reassuring the way Steve looks at him, like he doesn’t mind a bit. “No worries. And um…” He clears his throat, suddenly looking everywhere but Bucky. “Personally, I don’t think you have to worry about your weight. I mean… you’re a good looking guy. Just uh… in my opinion…”

Something hot blooms in Bucky’s stomach, suffusing out through his limbs. Is that Steve’s way of admitting he likes Bucky? Or is he just being polite and supportive?

Like most things about Steve, the intent is very unclear.

Regardless, Bucky’s heart beats a little faster. “Thanks,” he says. 

“So er… I’m going to guess you broke up with this asshole?” Steve asks, a touch too quick.

Like maybe he feels the tension the same way Bucky does.

“Yeah…” Bucky says with a breathy laugh. “That’s kind of why I’m here actually.”

He finds himself spilling the whole story. About the snowstorm and the day he lost his job. How Brock turned out to be the engineer of the entire thing, so Bucky told him to go fuck himself and walked out on him.

Steve laughs delightedly when he gets to that bit. “In the middle of a crowded restaurant? Really?”

Bucky nods. “Even gave him the middle finger as I walked away.”

Steve’s got the biggest smile on his face. Disbelieving, proud, and aggressively fond, even. Like Bucky really did kill the Witch-king of Angmar, not just break up with a self-absorbed gaslighting asshole who he should’ve ditched long before he did.

“I should’ve known you’d have a feisty streak to you,” Steve says, looking gratified.

“Why?” Bucky frowns.

Steve tilts his head, looking a little embarrassed. “Well… it’s just that you remind me a bit of someone else I used to know.”

“Who?”

There’s something about the way Steve’s expression looks too carefully composed. Almost as though he’s trying to downplay whatever he’s about to say.

“Oh… just a friend from London,” he says, glancing down at his lap. “She never took any shit from anyone either. I always loved the way she stood up for herself.”

It’s his voice that betrays him, not entirely able to hide the nostalgic undertone Bucky’s begun to recognise all too well.

Ah. _That_ someone.

The flash of jealousy returns, like a hot knife to his gut.

But—as much as Bucky’s not keen on the idea of Steve pining after some woman he used to date in London, he supposes that by the time you reach thirty, you’re bound to be carrying some baggage. Even more so if the break up was amicable.

It makes him wonder what happened to cause it.

A cool breeze skims his neck, raising goosepimples there. He shivers. Probably should’ve worn something warmer…

With all the slow inevitability of the sea eroding a cliff face, Steve slips an arm around his waist, drawing Bucky firmly against his side. He holds him there, so quiet and still, it feels like he’s holding his breath too. Waiting for a sign or something.

How much more fucking obvious does he want Bucky to be?

Without the slightest hint of subtlety—they’re way past that—Bucky slips an arm around Steve’s middle, even daring to hook a couple of fingers into the belt loops of his jeans. The quiet exhale that escapes Steve’s mouth when he does is impossible to miss.

Suddenly, Bucky’s not cold anymore.

“So anyway,” he says, wondering if Steve’s heart is racing the same way his is. It has to be… right? “I guess I came on this trip to get away from it all and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with my life now.”

Steve hums again, fingers stroking idle patterns over Bucky’s hip. “Hmm… I guess that gives us something in common.”

“It does?”

“Yeah… Truth be told, part of the reason I came on this trip was to try and make a decision. I’ve had an offer to buy the farm. From some big international company. They’re buying up land all around the Lindis area, I’m not sure what for… since it’s no good for dairy conversion. But I’ve got to figure out if I want to sell.”

Bucky frowns. “I thought you said you loved the place? That it’d been in your family for years?”

Steve sighs. “I do, and it has. But it’s a lot of work. Hard work. And I’m there on my own now. Sure, I’ve got some good neighbours a couple of k’s down the road, and I get farm hands in to help at the busy times of year. But a farm is meant to be a family business. It gets lonely being out there all by myself. I guess I’ve been thinking… maybe this is an opportunity for a fresh start.”

It’s not something Bucky can help with, much as he’d like to. But what he _can_ relate to is the feeling of being cast adrift. Of having no clear path forward in life.

“I guess we can be confused and indecisive together,” he concludes, running his thumb along the outline of Steve’s jeans, irresistibly obvious beneath his too-tight shirt.

What he really wants is to push the fabric out of the way altogether. To stroke the smooth planes of Steve’s sides—his taught muscles and soft skin—as though they belong to him. But even if they’re slowly making progress, it feels like it probably doesn’t extend that far… yet. 

Steve gives a quiet huff of amusement.

“Yeah. I guess we can manage that.”

Bucky lays his head against Steve’s shoulder again, turning to face his shirt and inhaling softly. He smells so good. Like shampoo, cologne, and something else unique that Bucky can’t get enough of.

Another question pops into his brain—silly really—though knowing Steve, he can already guess what the answer will be. “Okay, pop quiz, have you ever been arrested?”

Beneath him, Steve startles.

“Where did that come from?”

“Just answer the question, Steve,” Bucky insists, mostly because he enjoys being difficult.

“Have _you_?” Steve asks, sounding aghast.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Of course not. My parents would’ve killed me.”

“Oh.”

“So…”

“Um, well…” Steve says, all unease and hesitation.

As though—

Bucky’s mouth drops open. He lifts his head, turning to view Steve’s face. “Oh my _God_. No... you’re about to tell me you have been, aren’t you?”

“I mean… it was just once,” Steve says, a little defensive. “The time before that I got off with just a warning.”

In disbelief, Bucky stares at him. “What did you do!?”

“I uh… I might have chained myself to a fence post as part of a protest against a dairy conversion near Lake Tekapo. I mean…” Steve gestures animatedly, sounding utterly indignant. “It’s one of the most picturesque parts of the whole country. And a sensitive ecological area. No one wants to see a row of great big ugly pivot irrigators and foreign pasture all through the place! Not to mention the damage cows do to the land around rivers…”

Literally all Bucky can do is laugh.

Somehow, it doesn’t seem all that surprising. Steve—the farmer with an environmental conscience. Passionate enough about his principles to get arrested for them. In fact, the more time Bucky spends around Steve, the more he’s realising Steve’s not one of those people you can take at face value. He’s complicated, multi-faceted and nearly always surprising.

“What did your mom think?”

Steve pauses, grinning like it’s a good memory. “She came to pick me up from the police cells in Wanaka. Said she was proud of me. That I was following a long history of protest in this country.” He lists them off on his free hand. “Bastion Point, the 1981 Springbok Tour, nuclear testing in the Pacific…”

“She was fine with it?” Bucky asks, dumbfounded. He can’t imagine his parents ever being like that. He’d probably get disowned…

Expression turning a little sheepish, Steve shrugs. “Well… she did suggest I might want to try doing something less likely to get me a criminal conviction next time. Just in case I ever wanted to travel overseas.”

Which sounds a lot more reasonable, Bucky thinks.

“It’s probably fair to say I’ve written several strongly worded letters since, though,” Steve continues. “I’m not sure the local council is very fond of me.”

His honesty makes Bucky laugh. “You’d fit right in in New York.”

Steve looks hopeful. “Yeah?”

“We like protesting too.”

That makes Steve laugh.

It’s so easy, talking with him. Like they’ve known each other their whole lives, even though it’s only been two weeks. He’s so genuine in everything he does, never holding anything back, it’s hard not to imagine he’d be like that in a relationship too—

With a quiet sigh, Steve lifts Bucky’s head off his shoulder, fingers sliding across his skin to gently cup his jaw. It sets Bucky’s blood on fire, the way Steve touches him, soft and easy, but purposeful too. He bites his bottom lip, hoping…

“We’d better think about getting back,” Steve says. “We’ve got an early ferry sailing to make tomorrow.”

Bucky groans.

From the expression on Steve’s face, he must interpret it as an objection to Bucky being asked to move—not the obvious disappointment that it is.

Steve, clearly, is an idiot.

Which probably means Bucky is too, for liking him as much as he does.

Seriously, though… what’s it going to take to get the message across? Bucky professing his undying love and promising to relinquish his immortality or something? Admittedly it’s not the best idea he’s ever had. But at this point, he’s not willing to rule anything out.

Storing the idea away for future consideration, Bucky follows Steve back down the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * “Dairy” is what we call a convenience store in NZ.
>   * The song playing in the bar that Steve and Bucky go to is called “40 Years” by The Phoenix Foundation. It’s not particularly recent, although compared to the rest of Steve’s music it is at least from this century. The music [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mz5qUPpuAFM) features a much younger Taika Waititi running along Wellington’s southern coastline on what looks to be an uncommonly nice and not windy day. Its lyrics inspired this chapter’s title.
>   * The police officers who make a cameo in this chapter are more Taika Waititi creations. They’re from “What We Do in The Shadows” a 2014 mockumentary about vampire flatmates living in Wellington. They were popular enough they now have their own spin-off series here in NZ called “Wellington Paranormal.” There are a couple of clips from their original appearance [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tf05tlmCqLY), but as with most Kiwi humour, I’m not sure how well it translates to an international audience.
>   * The water feature Bucky so flatteringly describes is the [ Cuba Street Bucket Fountain ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bucket_Fountain). It’s either a beloved landmark or target of ridicule depending on where in the country you’re from.
>   * This chapter also marks the end of the North Island’s part in this story. We’re officially halfway! From next week the South Island makes an appearance :)
>   * The photos in the collage are (clockwise from top left): Kenepuru Sound in the Marlborough Sounds, Milford Sound in Fiordland, lupins flowering in Wanaka, Roys Peak overlooking Lake Wanaka, Kerr Bay jetty in Nelson Lakes National Park, and the hills behind Lake Tekapo (they're very similar to Steve's description of his farm).
> 



	11. Summer Stone Fruit and Midnight Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for Bucky getting seasick at the start here. It's not in detail or anything, but you can skip to the first break if you want to miss it entirely.

In the morning, Bucky has… regrets.

It’s not that he drank too much. Not exactly. More that a _very_ slight excess of alcohol, combined with about four hours sleep, all mixed up with the unsteady pitching and rolling motion of the ship as it crosses the sea between the North and South Islands is not a good cocktail.

Fingers gripping the railing, he groans, watching the southern coast of Wellington grow more distant on the horizon. He wills it to stay still, even for a second.

It doesn’t.

A stiff breeze fuels white-caps on the water, snapping at Bucky’s clothing and chilling his exposed skin. It’s not nearly enough to force back the nausea roiling in his throat, but it is enough to make him feel unpleasantly cold as he loses the breakfast he didn’t even eat overboard.

_Ugh…_

There should be a rule—if you haven’t eaten anything, there should be nothing to come back up.

Afterward, he presses his head to the railing, letting the cool metal soothe his sweaty, hot forehead. At least Steve’s not here to see him. There’s nothing less sexy than someone reliving all their bad decisions the morning after. Hopefully, by the time he realises Bucky’s been gone too long, this will all be over, and Bucky can pretend it never happened.

So naturally—it’s like Steve’s summoned by Bucky’s misery or something.

He appears, a shadow at Bucky’s elbow, all concern and unwarranted pity at exactly the same moment that more of Bucky’s non-existent breakfast decides to show. Desperately wishing to die, Bucky leans over the railing again.

“I was wondering where you’d got to…” Steve says, so sympathetically it makes him want to die for real.

“Ungh,” is all Bucky can manage by way of reply. 

It’s supposed to sound like _‘for the love of God, please go away and let me suffer in peace.’_ But clearly, he’s not up to using so many words right now.

Which means, basically, that Steve has no idea what he’s trying to say. So he doesn’t leave, and instead spends several minutes rubbing comforting circles on Bucky’s back, until Bucky’s temporarily done spilling his guts over the edge of the boat.

There’s a whole gross mess of feelings inside of him, most of them related to the seasickness, and most of them bad. But there’s also a small part—a funny mushy sensation far too high in his chest to be related to his stomach—that might just be connected to what Steve’s doing.

“Steve…” Bucky croaks, turning to face him.

“I got you something to drink,” Steve says, holding up a soda bottle with the kind of cheerfulness no one with four hours sleep and a hangover should possess. “I know you probably don’t feel like it, but you should try and drink something. It might help.”

Bucky screws up his face. He might even, if he had more energy, object. But Steve’s too damn persistent for that, too often right, and anyway, what’s the worst that could happen? That Bucky redecorates the sides of the boat again, with… L&P?

He groans, burying his face in his hands. The soda bottle Steve’s holding out is a tiny version of the monstrosity they visited up north. World famous in New Zealand it claims… or something like that.

Steve removes the top and presses the bottle into Bucky’s hands. It’s wet with condensation, and Bucky wipes the moisture gratefully across his too-hot face before taking a cautious sip of the contents. They taste strange—a little like Sprite, but with more lemon, and something else he can’t quite place.

When he takes a second sip, Steve smiles. “Better?”

It’s not the worst. The cold sugary liquid does feel kind of soothing as it settles into Bucky’s upset stomach. He’s not sure he’s mature enough to actually admit that though. Instead, he settles for giving a small shrug. “How did you know?”

There’s nothing quite like being on the receiving end of one of Steve’s knowing smiles. Or any of his smiles, if Bucky’s being honest.

“You’d been looking pretty green ever since we got on board. So when you went running outside just after we left the shelter of the harbour, I had a pretty good idea what was going on.”

“Ugh…” Bucky groans again, running a hand through his damp, limp hair. He’s pathetic. Today sucks.

Unzipping his jacket, Steve drapes it over Bucky’s shoulders. He follows it up with an arm, tucking Bucky close to his side and looking down at him with a soft expression that makes Bucky’s insides melt all over again. The situation isn’t remotely sexy, but that’s not the point. Steve came to check if he’s okay, and it’s actually nice to have him here.

As like… a windbreak or whatever. Obviously.

They stand outside long enough that the shower clouds which hung around Wellington begin to break up and give way to clear blue skies. They reveal—just across the strait—a glorious jagged spine of mountains that runs away down the coast, every bit as wild and rugged as anything Bucky’s seen back home. Just bare, sharp-edged rock, with the faintest smattering of snow still clinging to their near-vertically inclined peaks. 

Awestruck, he draws a low breath.

Compared to the North Island, it’s like another country altogether. Truly like Middle-earth.

Next to him, Steve’s eyes linger on the point where the mountains and coastline disappear into the distant haze. His lips curve up at the edges, betraying a degree of longing that causes Bucky’s heart to skip a beat for wishing it was directed at him instead of the landscape.

“I missed this,” Steve says, heavy with feeling. “Home.”

About two hours after leaving Wellington, the motion of the ship finally calms as it pulls into the shelter of a narrow forest-clad passage, echoing with bird calls. A pod of dolphins even joins them for a time, skipping and jumping through the sparkling water at the bow of the ship, much to Bucky’s delight.

Everything is bright and clean—all pristine blue water with dozens of rocky bays and inlets hidden amongst the primordial forest. Here and there unfamiliar tree-ferns stick out above the canopy, like something from a pre-historic nature documentary. It’s like nowhere else Bucky has seen.

The ship pulls to a stop at a small, picturesque town that seems to be ninety percent ferry terminal and marina. A line of small shops and restaurants run the length of its waterfront street, with a smattering of houses creeping up the hills. But for the most part, it doesn’t impose on its surroundings.

They disembark mid-morning, just as the day is beginning to heat up. It’s Friday, Bucky realises with a start, and only ten days to go until Christmas. Ten more days before he and Steve part ways, and Bucky has to go back to Clint and Nat for what’s left of their vacation.

He’s not sure how he feels about that.

But, if not for a handful of decorations along the main street, and the pōhutukawa blooming like cheerful summer Christmas trees along the beachfront, Bucky would never even know the time of year. It’s clear and sunny, and not too hot. Perfect weather to roll the windows of the ute down where they’ve stopped it in a small parking lot near the water, and watch the moored boats swaying gently from side to side.

Steve mumbles something about the importance of road safety and taking breaks, then promptly falls asleep with his seat reclined, mouth open. It makes Bucky feel a little bad, knowing it was him who dragged Steve out into the early hours of the morning, then kept him awake playing caregiver when he could otherwise have slept on the boat. Luckily, he seems to have the amazing ability to fall asleep nearly anywhere—just like all those people who sleep on the subway, which Bucky has never understood.

He looks so peaceful it’s impossible not to take the chance to admire him though. Those finely chiselled features and his impeccably-groomed beard. The one delinquent strand of stray hair which falls across his forehead, oh so tempting…

As though by magnetism, Bucky reaches out and sweeps it back, fingertips contacting Steve’s skin in the barest of caresses.

For a second, Steve’s eyelashes flutter. Heart hitching in his chest, Bucky freezes.

Thankfully, Steve merely shifts his head a little before sinking lower in the seat.

It’s enough for Bucky let out a relieved sigh. However much he might want to broach his feelings with Steve, being caught touching him while he’s asleep probably isn’t high on the list of ideal ways to start.

Reclining his own seat, Bucky relaxes into it, listening to the slap of the ocean against the dock, the squeak of the boats against their moorings, and the cries of the gulls outside the window scrapping over some mess of discarded fishing bait dumped further along the pier. The air is rich with the scent of pollen, and there’s just enough of a cool breeze to make his eyelids feel heavy…

When he wakes up, they’re moving again. The sun looks higher in the sky so it’s probably early afternoon, although it’s unusual for him to have slept this long during the day. Outside are yet more forested hills, slipping past the speeding ute in a blur of conifer green and earthy brown. 

Straightening his seat, Bucky yawns, glancing over at Steve.

“Hey.” Steve smiles. “You were so sound asleep I didn’t want to wake you. Figured maybe you needed it after last night.”

“Where are we?”

Steve shrugs. “A few minutes out of Blenheim. It’s the next town on this road so I figured we’d stop there for some food, if you’re up to it?”

The tone he uses is non-committal, like he doesn’t want to suggest Bucky might still be too hungover, but he also knows it’s a distinct possibility.

As if on cue, Bucky’s stomach rumbles. Maybe it’s just getting off that goddamn ship with it’s disconcerting see-saw motion, or finally having caught up on some sleep, but he actually does feel quite hungry.

“No, I like the sound of that,” he says.

Steve nods, lips quirking up. “Cool.”

A few more meandering curves of the road bring them out of the hills altogether, spilling out onto a flat alluvial plain. A long bridge spans a river, unusual in that its broad width seems to contain more gravel than water. Either it’s a dry season, or the multiple intersecting streams that twine within its banks are a novel feature of the landscape. Something to do with the mountains, maybe? In any case, the geography of this island looks just as drastically different up close as it did from the boat.

The road continues south across the valley, the land around it soon turning cultivated, with field after field of verdant grape vines espaliered into neat little rows.

“Why grapes?” Bucky asks, on the automatic presumption Steve will have the answer.

As ever, it holds true.

“Wine. They grow some of the best in the world here, for the same reasons as they do where I live, in Central Otago. Well-drained soil, long sunny days, cool nights. It’s good for the fruit, apparently.” Almost as an afterthought, he grins. “Who knows… maybe you’ve even tried some New Zealand wine at one of those fancy New York restaurants of yours…”

Which is… a thought. Not that Bucky would ever have known, because Brock would probably have chosen it for him. 

“Maybe,” he says, irritated by the thought. The idea that Brock can infiltrate even his peaceful vacation. How, despite being on an entirely different continent, he still manages to be an asshole.

They pass several covered orchards, then slow through the centre of a town with nothing in particular to recommend it, other than its pretty surrounds perhaps. A few minutes later, in the middle of a regular suburban neighbourhood, Steve pulls up next to a tiny shop with a bright red awning. It looks awfully like a garage in someone’s backyard.

Eyeing it suspiciously, Bucky just sighs and follows him in. By now, he’s seen enough of New Zealand to know that just because something doesn’t look great, doesn’t mean it won’t be.

It’s just as well he does, because inside, the air is rich with the glorious aroma of cooked meat and pastry. Large heated cabinets are stacked full of pocket-sized parcels resting beneath titles like ‘pork belly’, ‘jerk chicken’, and ‘mince and cheese.’

“Pies,” Steve says, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

Oh yeah. He did threaten that, didn’t he?

Following Steve’s lead, Bucky gets a steak and blue cheese pie. It’s plucked from the warmer hot, and delivered to him in a white paper bag that soon begins to turn semi-translucent with grease. Sitting at a picnic table beneath the trees outside, Steve eats his straight from the bag. He breaks delicately through the pie's outer pastry, then pauses to blow on the contents within.

“Always blow on the pie, right?” Bucky says.

It’s worth it just to watch the way Steve's face light up. “Exactly,” he says, like he’s delighted Bucky even remembers.

It’s good advice, a fact which becomes apparent as soon as Bucky bites into his own. The hearty chunks of meat and gravy within retain their heat even after the outer pastry begins to cool, a clear trap for the inexperienced. It is delicious, though. Oily and rich with a mouth-wateringly flaky crust that Bucky imagines would be even better in the depths of winter.

It only takes them a couple of minutes to devour both pies, until the only evidence left is a few flakes of pastry on the picnic table, grease on their fingers and smiles on their faces. Plus one or two crumbs in Steve’s beard as well, which Bucky almost can’t help but brush away…

Pies, he decides, are right up there with pizza as a hangover food. Not that he’s ever going to concede as much to Steve.

Afterwards, they drive a few minutes down the road to one of the expansive covered orchards. There’s a small stall out the front selling containers of what might be the plumpest, juiciest looking cherries Bucky’s ever seen, but Steve eschews these in favour of picking up a bucket and plastic bag from the woman behind the counter.

“The rows in the far north corner are the best at the moment,” she tells him with a smile.

“Thanks,” Steve says, motioning for Bucky to follow him to a gate that leads into the orchard.

“What are we doing?” Bucky asks, making sure to shut the gate behind him because Steve’s a stickler for always doing that. 

The question earns him a blank look, complete with a single raised eyebrow. “Are you telling me you’ve never picked your own fruit before?”

_Oh…_

“How many orchards do you think we have in Brooklyn?” Bucky returns, wry.

In fairness, he does remember having done it once or twice as a kid, maybe somewhere upstate. But it’s not like anyone’s running a stone fruit orchard out of Prospect Park… 

For a moment, Steve looks kind of bemused. Then he smiles, handing Bucky the bucket. “Yeah okay, that makes sense. You’re in for a treat anyway. Pick your own is how you get the freshest fruit, and it’s cheaper too…”

There are row upon row of low-hanging trees standing beneath shade-cloth material obviously designed to keep the birds out. Regardless, one or two burglars have still managed to find their way in, flitting from tree to tree, beaks stained red with juice.

In the dappled light beneath the boughs, the heat of the sun lessens. The air smells lush and earthy, damp with moisture from irrigation lines that run beneath each tree, the perfect respite from an otherwise hot afternoon. Steve shows Bucky how to find the biggest, juiciest cherries, swollen to the perfect point of ripeness. Skin the colour of mulled wine, pliable to touch, with just the subtlest hint of shine, and pulled from the tree without effort. 

It’s too easy to lose half an hour wandering between the rows, filling their bucket until they have about two pounds worth. And at the end, when Steve pays, it costs only about as much as a large cup of coffee, currency conversion taken into account.

“They always put the prices up right before Christmas,” he grumbles, walking back to the ute.

Bucky has to contain his laughter. If Steve saw the price of fresh fruit in New York before Christmas he’d probably have a heart attack. How, if fresh cherries can be found at all, buying them probably involves some kind of trade-off with paying your monthly rent.

So, having them straight off the tree in the days leading up to Christmas is a real treat.

At the far end of town, Steve pulls into a small parking lot in the shadow of the southern hills. There’s a map nearby featuring several local walking tracks, and, picking one, he leads the way along it, carrying their bag of cherries in hand.

For a time, the path meanders up a valley beneath some very parched-looking scrub, trees laden with fuzzy yellow flowers and permeated by a sweet heady scent that lingers in the air. Eventually it steepens, breaking out onto hills covered in waist-long gold grass that rustles softly in the breeze. 

There’s a glorious view of the valley beneath them—a vibrant patchwork quilt of vineyards sprawling the breadth of it—with forest-clad hills and the river to the north, and a stunning calm bay to the east. 

“That’s Wellington,” Steve offers, pointing at a distant coastline where clouds still gather on the horizon.

Bucky shades his eyes to look at it, memories of the not-so-pleasant ferry ride still fresh in his mind. But from here, the water looks deceptively still.

They find a dry spot of ground to sit on, admiring the view and enjoying the sun. From beneath a greasy layer of Steve-approved sunscreen, of course…

“So,” Bucky says, sweeping one hand lazily through the grass and letting his mind wander. “What’s your favourite Fleetwood Mac song? I know you must have one…”

“Good question.” Steve smiles. He runs a hand through his hair, obviously trying to fix whatever the wind up here is doing to it, but only succeeding in messing it up more. “It’s a close run thing, but I guess it would have to be Gypsy.”

Humming in acknowledgement, Bucky watches him. It’s nice to see Steve’s hair a little messed up for a change. Looks good on him. It’s just a shame Bucky’s not the one causing it.

“Yeah, that one’s nice,” he agrees eventually.

But in fairness, when Steve looks as good as he does now—which is all the time, obviously—Bucky’s inclined to agree with pretty much anything he says.

Steve laughs. “I’m not sure nice is the word I’d use. Depressing, maybe.”

_Depressing?_

Bucky frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Steve says, tilting his head thoughtfully to one side. “If you listen to the lyrics it’s basically all about love and loss, and going back to your roots to find yourself again afterwards. How that lightning-strike moment of meeting someone truly special might only happen once or twice in our lifetimes, so once it’s gone…” Gazing out at the distant mountains, he trails off.

“Okay, that is depressing,” Bucky agrees. “Why do you like it, then?”

Still quiet, Steve’s lips press together, his expression flat and carefully composed. “It reminds me of a certain time in my life, I guess,” he says softly.

Bucky hesitates. It’s not really clear how he should respond to that. If there even _is_ a right response.

“Stevie Nicks always said she wrote her best music when times were bad,” Steve continues, saving him from having to try.

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Bucky observes, feeling like there’s more going on here than he understands.

With a small shrug, Steve faces him. “I told you my parents were big fans. I’m even named after her—Stevie Nicks, that is.”

“What?”

“Well… mostly anyway,” Steve says, smiling again, sweet and fond. “Mum wanted to call me Stevie, but Dad insisted on Steven. He said it was more practical. So Mum made a point of always calling me Stevie anyway.”

Bucky chuckles. “So there _was_ something your parents disagreed on after all.”

Far up in the blue, a silhouette of a bird flutters against the wind, trilling out a warbling song.

Steve watches it. “Not many things,” he says. “But that was one. Most of the time though, Dad would’ve let her get away with murder…”

It sounds almost as though he approves of the idea.

He turns back to Bucky. “Anyway, what’s _your_ favourite Fleetwood Mac song? You must have one by now.”

Whether that’s an admission that he’s been torturing Bucky with decades-old music for this entire trip, Bucky doesn’t know. It sounds kind of like it. Yet… the fact he keeps doing it is one of those horribly endearing things that makes Steve, Steve. 

“I kind of like Seven Wonders,” Bucky says. “But I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me it’s depressing somehow too.”

Steve’s expression gives nothing away. “Well… what do you think it’s about?”

Pausing, Bucky frowns. Should he really say it? But, what the hell… what good music isn’t about love anyway?

“It sounds like it’s about meeting someone special,” he concedes.

Steve looks thoughtful. “That’s what I’ve always thought, too. But then there’s all that stuff about never living to match the beauty again. It sounds sad. Like it’s about meeting someone amazing, but not being able to make things work, and knowing that no matter how long you live, you’re never going to find another person like them again…”

Bucky lets out a sharp snort. Okay, so like… all the band’s songs are just depressing as fuck, then. He casts Steve a sideways look. “Aren’t you a real ray of sunshine?”

Typical Steve though, he just smiles in a way that makes Bucky feel lightheaded. All rapt attention and a soft expression, like Bucky’s the most important person in his world.

“I aim to please.”

 _Not nearly enough_ —Bucky thinks. After all, is it really asking too much to work out what the hell is going on between them? Obviously, there’s no denying how much he wants to fuck Steve senseless, but now there’s all this other stuff getting mixed up in it too. All the time they spend doing stuff like this, which, by any other definition, would basically be dating—

“Bucky,” Steve says softly.

Heart pounding, Bucky turns away from the view. “What—”

Steve crams a juicy red cherry straight into Bucky’s open mouth.

It’s not graceful in the slightest—nothing like the romance movies always make it out to be. He just shoves it right in there, looking very much like he’s struggling to keep a straight face.

“Mmmfph!” Bucky complains, scowling as cherry juice dribbles down his chin.

Steve cackles with laughter.

“Hey asshole,” Bucky complains, as soon as he manages to retrieve the pit from his mouth and swallow the rest. “You oughta give a guy a bit of warning if you’re going to stick something in his mouth like that.”

If anything, that only makes Steve worse. Shoulders shaking, he watches Bucky, eyebrows creeping irresistibly up. “Oh, is that how it works?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, tossing the pit aside. He grabs a cherry from the bag and does his best to cram it into Steve’s mouth in retribution. “It’s this thing called consent.”

“I mean…” Steve snickers, batting Bucky’s hands away. “I really thought we were talking about fruit, but if you’re talking about what I think you are then mmmf—”

For that, Bucky tackles him to the ground and shoves two whole cherries into his mouth. And fucking Steve… cheeks bulging, he just grins and bites down on them both, turning his head to expertly spit the pits somewhere downslope.

“You’re insufferable,” Bucky complains, trying hard not to focus on the way he’s now lying half-draped over Steve’s chest, separated only by a couple of very thin layers of cotton.

Jesus—every part of Steve is sun-soaked firm muscle, with gorgeous kissable lips stained cherry-red, and a body that feels like it could fucking wreck Bucky. If _only_ he would wreck Bucky…

“Okay,” Steve says, producing another cherry from nowhere and holding it up to Bucky’s mouth. “Do you want another one?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky opens up and Steve pops it in, fingers lingering softly across his lips. It could just be that because of their relative positions he wants to be sure it’s not going to fall out and hit him in the face, or—

Eyes darkening, Steve sweeps his thumb down over Bucky’s chin, soft with longing and—

Warmth drops in Bucky’s stomach, spreading rapidly until he’s dizzy with it. Oh _fuck_. Is this the moment when it’s finally going to happen? When, after all this waiting, Steve finally—

“You’ve got cherry juice on your chin, Buck,” Steve says, wiping at it in a business-like manner that is—frankly—just not sexy at all. 

“You put that there!” Bucky complains, batting him roughly in the chest. 

“I don’t see how I can be responsible for your messy eating…”

Steve’s stupidly attractive face looks anything but serious though and Bucky makes a noise of disgust, rolling off him to sit up and spit the pit downhill. “I don’t know how I put up with you.”

Chuckling, Steve holds out another cherry. “Maybe it’s because I’m funny, and charming, with dashing good looks…”

Snorting again, Bucky snatches the fruit from him, adopting what he hopes is a scathing enough look to counter all the ways in which that statement is true. “You’re obnoxious, and bad-mannered, and you have grass in your hair.”

Steve frowns, running his hands through his untidy blond locks. “I do?”

Bucky grins, popping the cherry into his mouth. “No. But I made you think you did.”

Stilling, Steve shakes his head. “You’re an absolute terror, you know that?”

He looks so happy about it, Bucky has to grin. “So I’ve been told.”

Anyway, it serves him right for getting Bucky all hopeful like that, then just… copping out. Bucky aims his latest pit at a spiky plant with yellow flowers, just down the hill. Gorse by the look of it, same as at home. If only he could figure out what Steve’s hang up with intimacy is. Because other than that, this has been the perfect afternoon. The perfect couple of weeks, really…

Next to him, Steve sneezes several times in quick succession. “Ugh….” he says, rubbing at his eyes.

Leaning away, Bucky glares at him, askance. “You’re not getting sick are you?”

Poised on a another sneeze, Steve shakes his head, face all screwed up. “S’hayfever,” he says. “From the grass. I think I’ve got some antihistamines back in the ute…

Bucky stares at him for a long moment. Then he laughs, hysterically.

Seriously, what else is he supposed to do? Steve—farmer and expert in all things pasture—is allergic to grass. The very same thing he makes a living from. It’s fucking hilarious.

Steve shoots him an unimpressed look.

“All right,” Bucky says, once he’s managed to calm down enough to use actual words again. “I guess we’d better go back down, then.”

They drive up the valley into the mountains. Until the vineyards transition into fields of sheep, then rough scrubland, then alpine tussock. Even just driving along a highway here feels like an adventure into Middle-earth. So much, it’s best if Steve does it, because Bucky literally can’t keep his eyes off the scenery.

The South Island is truly wild. Spanning roughly the same geographical area as the north, but with only a quarter of the population, there are fewer towns and far more open untouched space. Or, maybe not open exactly, since the snow-capped Southern Alps straddle the heart of the entire island from north to south, looming perpetually over everything else. There doesn’t seem to be a single place that isn’t either in sight of them, or actually _in_ them.

Like the tiny middle-of-nowhere town where Steve and Bucky stop for the night—nestled beside a stunning alpine lake. A jetty protrudes over water so calm it reflects the mountains like glass, easily the scenic equal of anything Bucky’s seen in North America.

Without the bears, even.

They camp at the lake’s edge, surrounded by native forest. Towering beech trees, their trunks black with honeydew mould, the ground soft with their tiny round leaves. Everything is damp, mossy and overgrown. A cacophony of birdsong echoes around the basin—tūī and bellbirds and big fat woodpigeons that swoop low between the trees. Tiny black and white fantails that flit around them as they put up the tent, searching for insects in the disturbed soil.

There’s something about it that feels unreal. A magical, enchanted quality, much like Fangorn Forest. As though the actors of the Fellowship might run from the trees at any moment, pursued by orcs, waiting for someone to yell cut.

They don’t, obviously, and no one does, and it seems like Bucky and Steve pretty much have the place to themselves. There are a few other people in motorhomes further down the lakeshore, but the isolated bay they’re sharing is easily big enough for them each to have their own space.

In the warmth of the late afternoon, as the light on the mountains turns golden, Steve suggests going for a swim. Obviously Bucky agrees—there’s never not a good time to admire Steve shirtless.

It begins however, with Bucky lying on his stomach on the jetty, peering down into crystal clear water at a cluster of long black shapes unmistakeably lurking near its bottom.

“Uh, Steve…” he says, pointing down. “Why does it look like there are eels in the water?”

Steve peers over his shoulder, remarking helpfully, “Because there are eels in the water.”

Glancing up, Bucky makes an unenthusiastic face. “And you expect me to swim in it?”

The picture of innocent reassurance, Steve holds up his hands. “Don’t worry, they won’t eat much.”

“Much?” Bucky exclaims, far too high-pitched for his liking.

“I mean… they might just nibble your toes a little…”

Swallowing roughly, Bucky considers the writhing mass beneath him. Just imagine trying to explain _that_ to his parents. Or Becca. She’d laugh her ass off if he lost a couple of toes to hungry eels in New Zealand…

“Steve—” he whines.

And Steve—asshole that he is, just laughs. “Come on. We’ll just take a photo, then.” He nods to the end of the jetty and the view which, for all intents and purposes, looks unchanged from when his parents posed in the very same place over thirty years ago. 

“Okay,” Bucky concedes. That, at least, he can do.

Steve sets up his camera, balancing it precariously on a sign at the shore-end of the jetty and programming the timer. Then, he runs back down to Bucky. A flashing light beside the lens blinks faster.

Next, a couple of things happen instantaneously.

Firstly, Steve sweeps Bucky into his arms, lifting him in a bridal carry that leaves Bucky clutching around his neck in surprise. Secondly, the camera blinks to a stop—catching, indelibly, the look of joyful smugness on Steve’s face as he smiles down at Bucky, about half a second before he throws them both backward off the jetty.

Bucky plunges underwater, the world going silent around him. It’s freezing—the water obviously straight off the mountains—and it hits him like a punch to the chest. Something slimy curls past one of his ankles and he’s not proud of this, but he maybe, definitely, screams a little bit as soon as his head breaks the surface.

Next to him, Steve is wearing an unbelievably amused grin that Bucky wants very much to wipe right off his unreasonably attractive face.

“What the fuck!” Bucky gripes, giving him an insincere shove.

“Awww c’mon,” Steve says, tossing wet hair out of his eyes. “They’re really not going to eat you, I promise.”

Bucky stares dubiously into the water beneath him. It’s very definitely still moving. Ugh…

“How do you know? Maybe they like toes…”

Steve laughs, eyes bright in a way Bucky can’t look away from, no matter how much he’s worried about the eels beneath his feet.

“They like cat food, freshwater crayfish and the odd duckling…” Steve says, holding out a hand that Bucky absolutely shouldn’t take, but also can’t bring himself to refuse. “Not unsuspecting American tourists.”

Bucky pouts. “If you’re wrong, I’m letting you get eaten first.”

Steve just shrugs. “Deal.”

They swim for a while, until they’re both tired and cold. Then, sprawled out on the warm jetty in the sun afterwards, Bucky’s forced to admit that Steve was right. Their toes remain thankfully untouched.

But as friendly as the eels might be, the sandflies are a different story. As soon as the sun begins to set, large dense clouds of them fill the air, thick enough to gag on. It takes nearly an entire can of spray-on bug repellent to deter them even slightly, and still, a bunch of them end up stuck inside the tent that night, buzzing around Bucky’s head as he tries to sleep.

It makes for a decidedly less than restful night, even if he does get to be in the same space as Steve for the first time in what feels like forever, but is actually only three nights. And the next morning when Bucky wakes, he’s got a good half-dozen swollen bites, despite having kept his limbs securely in the same sleeping bag as Steve, who somehow emerges untouched.

“Unbelievable…” Bucky mutters, rubbing anti-itch cream viciously all over his bites.

“Maybe you just taste good,” Steve suggests innocently, between mouthfuls of breakfast at the picnic table.

His expression looks anything but innocent though.

“Wouldn’t you love to know?” Bucky shoots back, gratified to see the way _that_ makes Steve’s cheeks colour. Suitably chastened, he fixes his gaze firmly back to his bowl.

There’s a new message from Becca too, which Bucky opens as he eats.

> Becca: So are you still alive or should I be like, contacting Interpol or something?

Snorting sharply, Bucky taps out a reply.

> Bucky: Yes I’m still alive. Although Steve did try to feed me to some eels yesterday.
> 
> Becca: Eels? Should I even ask?
> 
> Bucky: No, it was terrifying. I’m clearly traumatized.

Several bellbirds leap between the bushes nearby, warbling and chattering at the only volume they have—extra loud. Bucky can almost picture Becca rolling her eyes at his dramatic exaggeration. But eventually, she must pause long enough to respond.

> Becca: Yeah, you sure sound it. But more importantly—I want to know if I won?

It’s Bucky’s turn to roll his eyes.

> Bucky: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
> 
> Becca: Don’t bullshit me. Is he bi or not?

Oh, that’s right. Denial and re-direction have literally never worked with Becca. It’s part of what makes her such a good lawyer.

Bucky sighs.

> Bucky: Yes. But I don’t know if he’s into me, specifically. 

There are several minutes of silence after that, during which Bucky polishes off his toast, makes himself another coffee, and literally no amount of staring at his phone screen forces it to give up whatever witchcraft Becca is clearly concocting.

Her reply, when it finally comes, is typically blunt.

> Becca: So what you’re saying is… you haven’t slept with him yet?

Bucky facepalms so hard it even makes Steve look up, curious.

It doesn’t really matter what Bucky says though. At this point, he’s already screwed. Becca’s only seeking confirmation for what she already knows, and nothing he can say will keep her from the truth. It’s better to just come out with it.

> Bucky: I have not.
> 
> Becca: So… just to be very clear. You’ve been travelling with this guy for close to three weeks. But you haven’t slept with him. And he hasn’t offered to sleep with you?

Bucky snorts, fingers flying across the screen.

> Bucky: Yes, yes, and obviously he hasn’t offered, otherwise I’d have slept with him, wouldn’t I, genius?”

There’s another brief bout of radio silence.

> Becca: Uh oh.

Bucky’s heart almost stops.

> Bucky: What do you mean, uh oh?

There are a few brief seconds of peace before Becca’s far-too-knowing response arrives.

> Becca: I think this is some sort of record for you?
> 
> Becca: I mean… clearly he’s a dumbass too.
> 
> Becca: But you normally never have this kind of patience with guys.
> 
> Becca: You haven’t, by chance, been afflicted with feelings, have you?

Her accusation makes it impossible for Bucky not to glance across the table at Steve, just to confirm to himself that that is not what’s happening here. So of course, Steve picks exactly that moment to betray Bucky with a fond little smile, that absolutely does not cause Bucky’s heart to change rhythm in any way. Or make his cheeks feel too-warm, or his chest all weird and floaty again.

Steve nods at Bucky’s phone. “Your sister?”

“Yup,” Bucky manages, slightly strangled.

“Tell her I say hi.”

Mouth dry, it’s all Bucky can do just to nod. “Yup…”

Shit. He really _is_ fucked, isn’t he? How did he not notice this before?

> Bucky: I hate you.
> 
> Bucky: Also, Steve says hi.

The thirty or so seconds Becca’s reply takes to arrive must be the precise amount of time she spends laughing her ass off.

> Becca: OMG.
> 
> Becca: You’re so screwed. 

Bucky makes a noise of disgust, stabbing aggressively at his screen.

> Bucky: Don’t you have important meetings to attend or something?
> 
> Becca: Yes. But I’ll definitely make time for the wedding, so you’d better invite me 😉
> 
> Bucky: That is not what’s happening here.
> 
> Becca: You keep telling yourself that. Anyway, I have to go wrangle Tony Stark and stop whatever carnage he’s been causing to the stock market this afternoon. Talk later.

Bucky slams his phone down, hard. That is _not_ what this is. Becca’s wrong. Bucky’s just on this trip to get laid and have a little fun over summer. That’s all.

“Everything okay, Buck?” Steve asks, causing Bucky’s pulse to kick up another notch entirely.

“Fine,” Bucky snaps, picking up his dishes and heading for the kitchen while his brain has a Chernobyl-grade meltdown. “Just fine.”

The only thing it is absolutely not right now—is fine.

They spend most of that day in Nelson—another delightful New Zealand city sandwiched between the mountains and the sea. It’s got an artsy, alternative vibe, and is home to the geographical centre of the country, up on a hill overlooking the sweeping expanse of Tasman Bay. It’s a hard, hot walk to get up there, through scrub deafening with the sound of cicadas, but the view at the end is worth it. They spend several pleasant minutes admiring it while getting their breath back.

Nelson is also home to an actual Starbucks too, so to Steve’s great amusement, and no small number of irritating comments about having sold out to globalisation, Bucky gets his much-derided Frappuccino. He sips it while wandering from one art gallery to the next, briefly detouring to check out the shop of the jeweller who made the One Ring. And if Steve chuckles a little fondly at the way Bucky leaves fingerprints all over the glass cases, pressing his nose right up to them with noises of wonder, that’s his problem, not Bucky’s.

Overall, it’s a relaxing day spent ambling from one sight to the next, in no particular hurry to be anywhere. A gentle reminder of just how comfortable it is to be around Steve. How easily they’ve fallen into sharing jokes, small gestures and fleeting touches that hint at something deeper than mere camaraderie...

As always, Bucky tries not to think about it.

Later that evening, after another drive along the coast, they end up at a small camp site that borders a golden-sand beach. The whole operation seems to be run out of a dodgy caravan covered in ghillie netting, overseen by a man who can only be described as eccentric. His clothes are mismatched and worn, a colander sits at a jaunty angle on his head, and there’s a coat on a hook by the door which seems to include at least half a small bush tied to it.

“Hi…” Steve begins.

The man jumps like someone’s shot a gun.

“Oh, hello!” he exclaims, waving like he’s surprised to see actual people.

It looks like he exists in a semi-perpetual state of manic startle. Bucky’s pretty sure there are twigs caught in his extensive unkempt beard. Maybe a few screws loose in other places, too.

“Hi,” Steve tries again. “We’d like to get a camp site for the night.”

At that, the man’s face brightens. “Oooh, well you’ve come to the right place. Presuming you’re not government types of course.”

He narrows his eyes, looking between them, like they very well might be. Behind him, an old radio transmitter crackles and splutters into life, broadcasting static.

Steve coughs, looking a lot like Bucky feels. As though he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “We’re definitely not with the government. Just tourists travelling the country,” he promises.

The man lets out a relieved sigh. “Great! Well in that case it’s fifteen dollars for the night and you can have any of the sites out there. Just uh… don’t go wandering off into the bush. They say there’s a crazy man living out there!” He augments this statement with overly dramatic gesticulation, clearly angling for a shocked response. Who ‘they’ are, though, he doesn’t define.

To his credit, Steve is taking this all far more in-stride than Bucky. He’s a lot better at keeping a straight face, anyway. 

“Can I pay by card?” Steve asks, skipping over the matter of the supposed bogeyman entirely. 

His suggestion elicits a reaction of pure horror from their host, though. “Why would you want to do that?” he asks, wide-eyed and glancing around erratically. “That’s how the government tracks you! So they can make you fill in their forms…”

Steve nods, digesting this like it’s a completely reasonable concern. His mouth turns up at the corners with a patient smile. “You know… I think I have some cash in the car. I’ll just go get it.”

He gives Bucky a look that seems designed to suggest _‘don’t do anything stupid until I get back,’_ then disappears.

The silence is that remains deafening. Bucky tries to think of something to say, but fails entirely. What can you say to someone so clearly a few sandwiches short of a picnic?

Moments later, their host clears his throat, looking at Bucky and waving a hand vaguely in the direction Steve’s gone in. “So are you two like… you know…” His eyebrows shoot up, full of implications.

Bucky tries to hold back a snicker. “Oh um… no. We’re not like that.”

At least… not yet. A guy can dream, though.

The man holds up his hands. “Oh I’m not judging of course! I’m all for that kind of thing. Fuck the man and all that!” he enthuses, holding a fist in the air. Then, he frowns up at it, as though suddenly doubting his choice of words.

It’s all Bucky can do not to laugh. This guy is definitely a little strange, but he seems harmless enough. No worse than some of the more eccentric people Bucky’s met back home.

“Anyway,” the man says cheerfully, turning to rummage around inside the door of the caravan before producing a plastic container full of cookies. “D’you want a bikkie? They’re homemade. Special recipe.”

Bucky stares at them. They seem to be some kind of chocolate flavour, with a thick layer of dark icing, capped by half a walnut. Short of marbles as this man seems to be, there doesn’t look like there’s anything untoward about his cookies. Plus, the last thing Bucky wants is to offend him by refusing or something.

He shrugs and takes one. “Sure. Thanks.”

The man looks gratified by his acceptance. He joins Bucky, picking one out and munching on it happily.

They’re actually not half bad. Crumbly and sweet, with a slightly unusual aftertaste. Nothing inedible though. By the time Steve returns, Bucky’s already managed to demolish two and is just getting started on his third. It’s a good way to keep their host happy, with the bonus of avoiding actually having to talk to him.

Steve produces a couple of colourful plastic notes which the man inspects closely. Apparently satisfied, he holds out his hand. Steve shakes it. Then, the cookie container makes another appearance.

“Bikkie?” the man asks hopefully.

Eyes narrowing, Steve gives the container a sniff.

“Special recipe,” their host enthuses.

Steve’s mouth ticks up a little. “Yeah, I see that,” he says, amusement clear on his face. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. Have to save room for dinner you know.”

“Oh, of course,” the man agrees, nodding like he thinks that’s sensible.

“Thanks, though… uh…” Steve trails off, gesturing like he’s asking for a name.

Suddenly, the man backs away, eyes wide, shaking his head. “Oh no. I don’t give out my details to anyone. Not since the last little incident. Fifteen years! I had to move to shake them off again. That’s how they get you, you know… with their forms and everything…”

“Sure. Well, thanks for the campsite anyway,” Steve says.

“Have a nice stay thanks bye!” the man replies, ducking back into the caravan and slamming the door firmly shut behind him.

Shaking his head, Steve turns back to Bucky, deftly plucking the rest of the cookie from his fingers and looking him up and down like he might be a bomb that’s about to explode.

“How do you feel?”

Bucky frowns. “Fine. Why? Are you worried he’s poisoned me or something?”

Steve crumbles the treat in his hand, pushing a couple of suspicious green clusters around his palm. “No. Not poisoned, exactly…”

Bucky stares at them. Is that what he thinks it is?

_Ah, shit…_

No wonder there was a funny aftertaste.

Steve laughs. “I guess we’re going to have an interesting night. Or at least… _you_ are.”

Honestly, Bucky has never felt so good in his life. He’s never felt so hungry either. But like—mostly it’s good. Anyway, Steve pretty much fixed the hunger with dinner, which might also have been a while ago, judging by the way he’s standing in the tent looking ready for bed.

Who knows. Time is merely an artificial construct anyway.

Bucky tries to tell Steve something to that effect, but the words don’t seem like they land right. Mostly because Steve gives him a look of eternal patience and nods, seeming like he’s having an awfully hard time keeping a straight face. So anyway, it’s obviously a waste of time trying to explain the mysteries of the cosmos to him. Which gives Bucky another idea entirely.

He hangs off Steve’s arm. “Please can we go for a swim?”

Steve clicks his tongue, a soft furrow taking up residence between his brows. “Bucky, it’s late… it’s bed time.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to go to bed,” Bucky argues, very rationally in his opinion. “I want to go swimming, and I’ll do it with or without you.”

He throws himself out of the tent, stomping down to the water, which actually takes far more effort than he feels like expending right now. All he really wants to do is float on his back in the ocean, gazing up at the pale sliver of new moon in the sky. The water seems like it would be a nice place to sleep. He could listen to the swish of the waves and the calls of those funny little New Zealand owls that make the _‘more-pork’_ sounds in the forest at night.

Sighing, Steve follows him.

The air is fresh and clear and the moonlight is just bright enough to cast everything in shades of grey. Damp sand squishes between Bucky’s toes as he skips across it towards the water’s edge.

There’s nothing for miles. No towns, no lights, just empty space. Freedom. He feels dizzy with it. Exhilarated.

Spinning in tight circles, he giggles. Blood pounds beneath his skin, electric. 

From a safe distance, Steve sits near the high water mark, watching. He’s got his head propped up on one hand, a funny little smile on his face, though it’s not easy to make out in the dark. Maybe he thinks Bucky can’t see. He’s all open unguarded lines, hair loose and messy, ready for bed.

He looks like a goddamn meal. And Bucky’s out of patience waiting. He holds out his hand. “Come dance with me, Steve.”

Something in Steve’s expression gives, his mouth softening ever so slightly. Bucky can imagine how it probably looks to him—Bucky with his curly hair wild, skipping around a beach at nearly midnight, very obviously high.

But still, Steve comes. He rises, crossing the beach, all broad shoulders and solid muscled bulk that make Bucky’s blood run hot. Jesus Christ—Bucky wants this. Wants him.

They come together, Steve’s hands falling naturally to Bucky’s waist, Bucky’s arms linking behind his neck, swaying slowly beside the water. Steve’s got a few inches on him and it’s perfect. His fingers slide to rest at the small of Bucky’s back, the firm plane of his abs almost— _almost_ pressed flush to Bucky’s stomach. He smells of soap, sunscreen and warmth, and Bucky breathes it in, senses reeling.

It’s better than he could ever have imagined.

He hums a soft tune.

_If I live to see the seven wonders…_

Steve’s eyes widen, lips parting in unexpected delight. He ducks his head. Maybe hiding a blush, though there’s no way Bucky could tell. Not beneath the washed out greys and midnight shadows.

_I’ll make a path to the rainbows end…_

Taking the lead, Steve wheels them gently through the edge of the surf. There are more stars in the night sky than Bucky’s ever seen before. More than all the fairy lights of New York strung out across the heavens. He’s like an elf, dancing bare-foot in the starlight with his lover.

The joy of it makes him throw his head back and laugh. Steve chuckles then too, delicate crinkles forming around his eyes Bucky loves so much. He gazes into their inky depths, mesmerised by what he sees there. A depth of feeling that takes his breath away.

Then, before Bucky knows it, Steve’s tilted his head down a little, and Bucky’s tilted his up, and his lips are on Steve’s, and _fuck_ —he doesn’t know which of them started it, but they’re kissing, and it’s fucking amazing.

Steve’s breath hitches, his arms tightening around Bucky, lips moving against his in a way that leaves no question as to his desires. Bucky makes a noise somewhere low in his throat, a shiver sliding down his spine to join the warmth rapidly pooling in his stomach. Steve’s beard tickles his chin and he drags his fingers through it, tracing the defined line of his jaw, just like he’s wanted to ever since their first meeting at Cape Reinga. Beneath his ribs, his heart races…

It’s perfect.

Too perfect.

Without warning, Steve tenses. He exhales raggedly against Bucky’s lips, allowing their foreheads to rest together for an all-too-brief, intimate moment. Then, with what looks like herculean effort, he breaks away, holding Bucky securely at arms length. 

A broken cry rips itself from Bucky’s throat. He tries to close the distance between them again, but Steve won’t allow it. Expression hiding nothing, he takes a deep breath. Hurt, longing, desire, and absolute unbreakable resolve—it’s all there on Steve’s face, plain as day, clear to see.

“I can’t do this, Buck,” he says quietly.

There’s a bitterness stealing in to replace the joy Bucky felt only seconds ago. “Steve…” he pleads.

It feels as if he’s cracking from the inside out, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“Not like this,” Steve says, shaking his head. “It’s not right.”

He sounds every bit as wrecked as Bucky feels. Not that Bucky fucking cares right now. Not if he’s going to promise so much, only to rip it all away again. 

“Steve, _please_ …”

“No.”

Giving in to the darkness growing inside of him, Bucky throws Steve’s hands off, turning his back and making for the trees. “Fine then. Have it your way. I hope you enjoy sleeping alone tonight.”

“Buck—” Steve calls after him.

But he’s too fucking late, because Bucky’s done with his shit. If there’s some reason Steve doesn’t want to be with him, that’s fine. But he doesn’t get to kiss Bucky breathless like he means it, only to discard him seconds later. Doesn’t get to string him along on a road trip for weeks, only to change his mind come decision time.

Taking out his rage on the forest, Bucky stomps into the trees, whacking at branches that catch in his hair, and cursing the uneven roots beneath his feet. Evidently, he makes less progress than he thinks, because within moments, Steve’s caught up to him, wrapping his arms around Bucky from behind and forcing him to a standstill.

“Bucky, stop,” he commands. “You can’t go running off into the bush in the middle of the night. You’ll get lost, or hurt, or—”

“Just watch me,” Bucky snarls, struggling ineffectually against Steve’s hold.

Not that it’s any use. He’d have more luck fighting a straightjacket probably. Steve just keeps a firm grip around him until he runs out of energy to resist.

“Are you done now?” he asks, voice perfectly even.

“No, I am fucking not,” Bucky snaps, trying to angle one more backward kick into Steve’s ankles for good measure.

Steve just sighs, spinning Bucky to face him and pulling him into a tight hug that leaves Bucky’s face pressed up against his chest. His very solid, very nice smelling chest. One of Steve’s hands settles at the nape of Bucky’s neck, running soothing fingers through his loose curls.

It’s totally unfair, considering what he’s just done. But, sucker for pain that he is, Bucky can’t find it in himself to resist. It’s so nice when Steve holds him like this…

“Will you please come back to the tent now?” Steve asks, voice a low rumble somewhere near Bucky’s ear. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. _If_ you remember…”

He sounds almost sad, exhaling softly against the skin of Bucky’s cheek. 

“Okay,” Bucky mumbles into Steve’s shirt, placated by his proximity. The comforting thud of his heartbeat beneath his ribs. “Okay…”

He’s definitely going to remember that kiss though. If Steve thinks he’s getting out of this without a fight, he’s wrong. They’re going to talk the shit out of it tomorrow, and Bucky is definitely, one hundred percent, going to sort out whatever Steve’s fucking hang ups with him are, once and for all.

Then he’s going to kiss the hell out of him, and a lot more besides…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * “Bush” is what we call native forest here. The term “forest” is literally never used unless it’s to refer to exotic pine plantations grown for the express purpose of exporting wood overseas. Common usages of the term might include “I’m going bushwalking,” “he’s gone bush,” or “we’ll bush-bash our way through here.” Aussies will know what I’m on about!
>   * I feel like I should explain the blowing on the pie thing. It comes from a clip that aired on a police reality tv show here, where the officer was trying to stall a guy while he ran some background checks. They had a brief [exchange](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEAHLFvD3v4) which ended up going viral. It became a running joke, and even had T-shirts made of it.
>   * The campground owner is a cameo who I couldn’t resist putting in. He’s from Hunt for the Wilderpeople, and you can see him in action [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZmXxNI4FbE). He seemed like an appropriate fit for the broader Takaka/Golden Bay area since it has a long history of attracting hippies and people seeking alternative lifestyles.
>   * [Gypsy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwgg1Pu6cNg) by Fleetwood Mac. And [Seven Wonders](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9b4F_ppjnKU).
> 



	12. Over the Misty Mountains Cold

Steve hands Bucky a mug of steaming black coffee before sitting down next to him on the beach. He sneaks a brief sideways glance, then takes a bite of his toast, chewing slowly and thoughtfully before looking at Bucky again.

He’s been acting kind of funny all morning. Like he’s walking on eggshells or something.

“So… you really don’t remember anything from last night?” he asks, a rising inflection suggesting he can’t quite believe it. 

Bucky snorts. “What did I already tell you? I have a vague recollection of thinking I was an elf, and being pretty happy about it, but other than that… if there’s something I need to know, you should probably just tell me.”

Lips pursed, Steve looks down at his lap. It goes some way towards hiding the deep bags under his eyes. Not enough, though.

Honestly, the way he’s behaving is starting to make Bucky worried. It’s not like Steve to be this distant, and Bucky’s pretty sure he didn’t sleep in the tent last night either. He swallows. “Steve…”

But Steve chooses that exact moment to look up with a smile that’s multiple shades of forced. “You wanted to go for a midnight bushwalk. It wasn’t easy to talk you out of it.”

“Oh.”

Bucky frowns. It feels like there’s a wall up between them again. One that wasn’t there last night. Big enough to make certain parts of the US government very proud.

He sips his coffee, watching the waves slip across the sand. There has to be something more going on here. If only he could remember…

But anything more than vague feelings or fleeting impressions are like water, slipping through his fingers as soon as he tries to get a hold on them. Which means his only choice is to take Steve at his word. What reason would he have to lie, anyway?

They pack up camp and get back on the road, re-tracing their steps to Blenheim. From there, the main highway turns south, meandering through vineyards and down to a rocky coastline. It hugs the hills, at one point briefly leaving the coast altogether to take a sweeping turn inland across another one of those mostly gravel rivers. As they come around the bend, a jaw-dropping vista opens up in front of them; a huge mountain valley ending in a line of majestic, snow-capped peaks.

Bucky lets out a low whistle.

It’s the scale as much as anything else that’s impressive. Vast enough to lose an entire block of Manhattan skyscrapers in with ease. It reminds him a bit of the Pacific Northwest, minus the conifer trees. Because forest here—where it still endures, deep in the secluded valleys of the foothills—is tangled, overgrown and steeped in the kind of mystery that has Bucky expecting to see Ents at every turn. It’s exactly the sort of place you wouldn’t want to wander into, for fear of getting lost and never coming back out.

Somehow managing to keep his eyes on the road, Steve reaches across Bucky and opens the glove compartment, depositing a few cassette tapes into Bucky’s lap.

Frowning, Bucky turns them over in his hands. Lord of the Rings. All three movie soundtracks. He laughs in delight. “Steve! You’ve been holding out on me!”

It’s gratifying to see a gentle smile return to Steve’s face. It makes Bucky realise how much he’s been missing it today, even if it does look a little more tentative than usual.

“Well… you had to be in the real Middle-earth,” Steve says, like that’s somehow a fair excuse. “For the proper atmosphere.”

He gestures at the view and Bucky rolls his eyes, already inserting the first tape into the player. “I’m starting to think you might be biased,” he complains.

From the quirk that statement brings to Steve’s lips, Bucky guesses he’s probably right.

Still, dealing with an actual cassette player makes Bucky feel like he’s back at middle school. It must have been what… a decade and a half? At least? Long enough he’s surprised he still remembers how to do it.

There’s a bit of fumbling with buttons while he figures out how to eject the tape after it’s apparent it’s on the wrong side, then it needs to be rewound. But, within a couple of minutes, the opening track is ringing through the ute’s tinny speakers, transporting Bucky right back to that first night he sat in the movie theatre with his parents and Becca and a huge bucket of popcorn, and stared wide-eyed with wonder at the world being brought to life on the screen.

It’s surreal to be here, over half a lifetime later, finally seeing the real thing. Like he’s accidentally stepped through the screen and into his own real-life movie.

The further south they travel the narrower and more winding the road becomes, wedged precariously between an encroaching sea to the left, and sheer mountain cliffs to the right. Then come the road works. Long lines of orange traffic cones, semi-finished seal, and shipping containers stacked against the cliffs. There are even places they have to stop entirely, to let opposite direction traffic pass, before being allowed to transit stretches narrowed to only a single lane.

The scale of the works seems huge, being as they are, in the middle of nowhere.

“Why all the road works?” Bucky asks. “It doesn’t seem like there’d be that much traffic here.”

Steve chuckles as though he’s asked a silly question. “It’s not to make it bigger. They’re just repairing it.” He points to the stark rocky cliffs above them, almost entirely devoid of vegetation. “There was a big earthquake here a couple of years ago. A lot of rockslides came down over the road. It was unusable for months, which is a pretty big deal, since it’s the main state highway.”

Oh sure. The main road. Complete with one lane bridges…

Bucky resists the temptation to roll his eyes. Still, if the raw gashes in the mountainsides are anything to go by, it must have been one hell of an earthquake.

“It raised the coastline by a few metres too,” Steve says, pointing to a cluster of jagged rocks rising out of the shallows next to the road. “See how the bottom part of them is all white? All of that was below water before the quake.”

Bucky considers it. They do look out of place—encrusted as they are with mussel shells and stringy fragments of long-dead seaweed. But they’ve also passed so many other rocky plateaus just like it, he’d just assumed the coast had always been that way. To think it had happened in an instant instead, new land dredged up from beneath the waves…

He shudders. “What are earthquakes like?”

It’s hard to visualise anything with that kind of raw power. The energy to literally move mountains, or raise the seafloor.

Steve shrugs, unfazed. “Depends on the earthquake. I actually slept right through this one. It happened at midnight and I guess it was too far away for me to feel much at home. Usually though, the little ones are like a truck passing by the house. Everything rattles for a few seconds, then stops. The bigger ones you can sometimes hear coming. Everything shakes for longer, stuff falls off shelves… you know. Kind of like the movies. But with less drama.”

Bucky snorts. As overly dramatic as Hollywood can make things seem, he gets the feeling Steve is the polar opposite. He probably couldn’t make anything dramatic if he tried. So him having slept right through a major earthquake seems entirely fitting. 

“That sounds terrible,” Bucky declares confidently. 

Means it too. At least in New York, the ground has the good manners not to bother its human inhabitants.

Steve however, fails to look worried. “You get used to it,” he says. “The bad ones are few and far between.”

It’s not anywhere near as reassuring as he thinks it is. Not since there are entire mountainsides right next to the road, looking like they’re just waiting to crash down on top of the ute.

“I just hope there aren’t any while I’m here,” Bucky says, horrified by the thought.

Steve laughs. “She’ll be right.”

And honestly… Bucky’s really starting to detest that attitude. For a country built on volcanoes and fault lines, New Zealanders are concerningly blasé about the risks. But then, he supposes, so are Californians. After all, when your home straddles a multi-millennia ticking time bomb, you’re bound to start taking some things for granted.

“What’s for lunch?” he asks, trying to put earthquakes firmly out of mind.

Steve brightens markedly. “Oh, I’ve actually got a place lined up…”

Steve’s idea of a lunch spot turns out to be yet another one of those curiously unassuming New Zealand locations that either looks like nothing special, or exactly the sort of place you might end up murdered in.

It’s a lonely blue and white caravan, parked on a gravel verge next to the road in the middle of nowhere, backed by a stony beach. It looks permanent only inasmuch as someone has gone to the trouble of planting a garden of native shrubs around it, contained within neatly stacked ankle-high stone borders. Several wooden picnic tables are scattered throughout its wider surrounds.

Something about the place feels liminal—like a last bastion of civilisation against the crashing sea.

They emerge with a plate of thick-cut fries, a bowl of steamed mussels, and most importantly, the local speciality—crayfish. It’s basically just lobster, but without the claws. In any case, the sight of a characteristic red shell and juicy white flesh drenched in garlic butter makes Bucky’s mouth water.

He makes a point of waiting until Steve’s seated, then sits down next to him, just to make sure he can’t escape.

There’s definitely still something funny going on with him. It’s more noticeable out here than in the ute, where their seating arrangements naturally keep them apart. Now however, it feels like Steve’s being careful to maintain some distance. As though he’s perpetually on the cusp of bolting. 

It’s annoying, all the more so because Bucky thought they’d moved past this stage days ago.

He decides he’s going to deal with it by not dealing with it. By acting like nothing’s changed. Because it hasn’t—at least not for him. And sure, maybe Steve does stare at him slightly like a deer in headlights when Bucky plops himself down at the picnic table beside him, close enough for their thighs to just touch. But he doesn’t actually run, for all that he swallows and looks like he wants to.

It’s another beautiful day, all blue skies and sunshine, with wisps of strung-out cotton-candy cloud floating high above the mountains. Waves crash against the shore, throwing salt spray into the air, and Bucky’s almost certain he sees a couple of seals sunning themselves on rocks nearby. On the road, cars, trucks and motorhomes speed past in a constant stream of traffic. 

It’s the sort of place that could be lonely, but on a nice day with good company and only a handful of other tourists, seems picture perfect.

They eat with their fingers, digging crayfish meat straight out of the shell, hot and steaming. The flavour is delicate and rich, a perfect combination with the crunchy, salty chips.

Steve declines Bucky’s offer to share his steamed mussels though. He looks at them, screwing up his nose and remarking, “Ugh. I’ll give it a miss. Thanks for the offer though…”

“You don’t like mussels?” Bucky asks, a little surprised. Steve’s never come across as a particularly picky eater.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Steve casts another dubious look at the offending food. “I don’t really like shellfish. I think maybe Mum tried to feed me one too many Bluff oysters when I was younger.”

“Bluff oysters?”

“From Invercargill. She grew up down there. Every school holidays we’d go back and visit my grandparents and if it was oyster season, she’d lug this huge chilly bin of the damn things back to the farm. I guess I just took after Dad. Never really developed a taste for rock-snot…”

His uncomplimentary description makes Bucky laugh. It’s genuine and unfiltered in a way that’s so unapologetically Steve. If Bucky had ever dared to call his mom’s prized Chesapeake Bay oysters ‘rock-snot’ in polite company, she’d probably have grounded him for a month. 

“What’s a ‘chilly bin’?” he asks, returning to the other point of interest in the conversation.

“Oh,” Steve says. “A… cooler? I think that’s what Sam said you call them in the States anyway…”

The longer they chat, the more Steve seems to let his guard down. He goes from tensing up every time Bucky brushes against him, to play-sparring him for the last chip. In an unusual display of magnanimity, Bucky even lets him win.

Eventually, they sit back, stuffed and a little sleepy, enjoying the light breeze. There are still another couple of hours of travel ahead of them—down to a city called Christchurch, Steve says—but relaxing beside him like this, Bucky’s not sure he ever wants to move again.

“Hey,” he says, gently elbowing Steve to get his attention. “I remember you saying you like to sketch sometimes. I was wondering… would you ever be willing to show me some of your work?”

It’s funny how Steve’s eyebrows are capable of conveying an entire novel’s worth of emotion in just a few short moments. At least, if he doesn’t bother to stop them... which he doesn’t. Or maybe Bucky’s just got better at reading him. Because first he looks caught off-guard. Then, gratified. Then, a little nervous.

“I mean…” he stammers, cute little furrows creasing his forehead. “I guess I could give you a demonstration?”

Bucky nods, eager.

Pulling a plain old ballpoint pen and notebook out of his pocket, Steve tears a page out, then flips over a plate to give himself a flat surface to work on. He looks back towards Bucky, tongue darting across his lips with obvious nervousness. “So, I um… need a subject.”

Sunlight makes his long blond eyelashes glow, framing those beautiful ocean-blue eyes. They linger on Bucky, deep with unspoken feeling.

Something in Bucky’s chest tightens.

 _Fuck_ …

“I wouldn’t mind…” he says, significantly breathier than he’d like.

He loves the way it makes the corners of Steve’s lips curl up. How a delightful pale pink flush creeps down over his cheeks and throat in a way that looks like it probably isn’t just an early sign of sunburn. 

“Oh, of course…” he says, sounding a little choked.

Briefly, he glances at the paper. Then back at Bucky again.

Something about it looks hesitant, like he’s wandered into an unfamiliar neighbourhood and can’t find his way back out again. Which would probably be about right, since Steve doesn’t have the first clue how to use Google maps…

It makes Bucky grin. He drags a hand through his hair, rearranging his curls to his liking. And hopefully, to Steve’s.

And, just like he has ever since the two of them started this whole ridiculous charade, Steve follows Bucky’s movements, gaze lingering on his chin, his mouth, his eyes, in a way that makes Bucky feel distinctly hot beneath his clothes. Like something inside of him is melting.

“Make sure you get my good angle,” he says, turning his head just to be extra difficult. Whatever the hell is going on with Steve, Bucky is _not_ going to make this easy for him.

Throat bobbing, Steve swallows roughly. “Okay… But you can’t watch while I’m doing it. You have to look somewhere neutral, like at the sea or something.”

Bucky makes a face. Regardless, he does as requested, turning to look at the ocean, curious enough to actually give Steve what he wants for once. At this angle, the breeze sweeps Bucky’s hair back, fresh with the scent of salt. And _oh_ —those definitely are seals playing in the water…

It’s hard not to peek at what Steve’s doing though, and if Bucky’s being honest, he does sneak a fair few looks. Probably more at the artist than the art.

It’s worth it to watch the delicate movements of Steve’s hand as it sweeps across the scrap of paper. How his brows knit together in concentration. The way his lips curve up softly whenever he sees Bucky looking, eyebrows rising too, eyes flicking briefly back out to sea as though to say _‘What do you think you’re doing? Eyes back on the view…’_

Yeah so… Bucky gets caught staring more than a few times.

But finally, after what feels like a lifetime of trying to stay still, it’s over.

“Done,” Steve says, pushing the paper across to him.

His body is tense and uncertain, shoulders held high and stiff like they might somehow help deflect the criticism he’s anticipating coming his way. Bucky scoops up the drawing and—

Oh, _wow_ …

His brain actually grinds to a halt. The likeness is astounding. Flawed only in that it might actually be prettier than Bucky is in real life. Steve’s left nothing out—capturing the subtle shadows smudged beneath his cheekbones, the central dimple of his chin, and the lifelike wind-tousled curls of his hair. Everything… right down to day-old stubble and a secretive smile Bucky didn’t even realise he’d let show…

“What do you think?” Steve asks, jaw still tight. “I know I’m a little out of practice, but—”

“It’s amazing!” Bucky enthuses, waving the paper in Steve’s face. “Do you really not see how good this is? I mean…”

A shy smile blossoms across Steve’s lips. He ducks his head. “Well… you’re welcome to keep it if you’d like.”

“I’m absolutely keeping it,” Bucky babbles.

Keeping it and framing it, probably, to put beside his bed. His brain is definitely not full of Titanic-esque ‘ _draw me like one of your French girls, Steve’_ ideas all over again. Except for all the parts where it absolutely is. Which is like… all the parts.

God, why did Steve have to be so fucking talented and nice and down to earth and—

Fuck him. Fuck everything. Fuck Bucky’s life. 

He wants to smuggle Steve back to New York with him. Take him home to Brooklyn and snuggle with him in bed every night. Come home after work to have Steve wrap him up in his big strong arms and kiss him silly…

Without even thinking, Bucky reaches for his hand, where it’s resting on the table. “Steve—”

But the second he touches it, Steve jumps like Bucky’s given him an electric shock. He snatches his fingers away, getting to his feet and taking several steps back.

“I guess we’d better get going,” he says, voice tight and uneasy again. “We’ve still got a long way to go today...”

And with that, he turns and heads for the ute, not even bothering to wait for Bucky’s reply. Stomach sinking, Bucky watches him go. What went wrong in Nelson? If only he could remember…

Literally the only thing he’s certain of anymore is that Steve’s not being honest with him about it. Which is no help at all.

They set up camp north of Christchurch, next to yet another picturesque and mostly deserted beach.

Much to Bucky’s disappointment, whatever’s going on with Steve causes him to lay out their sleeping bags separately. He doesn’t say anything about it, but there’s a moment just after he does it when Bucky could cut the tension in the air between them with a knife. Almost like Steve’s waiting for him to object. But with the temperature as mild as it is, Bucky doesn’t see how he’s supposed to. It’s not like he can fall back on their previous excuse.

That night, after he climbs into his sleeping bag alone, it takes far too long to fall asleep for the mess of thoughts running through his head. And it’s not like counting sheep helps either, because sheep just make him think of Steve, and so the cycle begins again.

But, given how carefully composed Steve’s breathing is, Bucky doesn’t think he’s the only one struggling. 

In the morning, he shelves his dignity and messages Becca about it.

> Bucky: So… help. I think I screwed up somehow.
> 
> Becca: Why? What did you do?
> 
> Bucky: That’s kind of the problem. I don’t know.

There’s a long pause before her reply finds its way to his phone, and in the intervening time, Bucky can just imagine Becca settling down at her desk with a mug of hot chocolate, hiding behind her stacks of paperwork, ready to hear him out and deliver whatever home truth Bucky doesn’t want to hear. She’s always been his sounding board like that.

He’s not disappointed. After spilling the whole situation to her, she delivers him precisely the advice he doesn’t want to be given. 

> Becca: Honestly? It sounds like you need to talk to him. Just tell him how you feel.

The butterflies in Bucky’s stomach object very much to this idea.

> Bucky: Yeah but, what if he says no?
> 
> Becca: At least you’d know for certain.

Writing her off as a lost cause, Bucky turns to Nat instead. From the pictures on her and Clint’s Instagram page, they must have travelled down the country faster than Bucky and Steve, crossing paths at some point to end up in Queenstown. There’s a lot of scenery that looks like it’s straight out of Lord of the Rings and several photos of various adrenaline sport pursuits—skydiving, bungy jumping, jetboating—all of which make Bucky’s stomach shrivel in terror. Almost as much as the idea of actually talking to Steve does.

It’s literally the last thing he wants to do… to come clean to Nat about everything that’s going on. But her and Clint have also been with him for every single one of his failed relationships since college. Sometimes Bucky thinks they know him better than he knows himself. And Nat’s especially good in a crisis. She’s level-headed and brilliant at knowing people—exactly the skills Bucky needs right now.

While Steve eats breakfast, Bucky messages her. For a time they share a nice little back and forth exchange. Then, obviously tiring of the clunky format, Nat calls him, forcing him to take a long paranoid walk down the beach so Steve can’t overhear their conversation.

Briefly, she allows Bucky the ice-breaker of chatting about their respective travels, kindly making no mention of him having ditched them, as though she can tell that’s the last thing he needs right now. Then, they get to the crux of the problem.

“What do you mean you haven’t slept with him yet?” Nat all but yells down the phone when Bucky admits as much. Then, more thoughtfully, she adds, “You never normally have that much patience. Or self-control.”

“Can we please not focus on that part, specifically,” Bucky says, over Clint’s very obvious exclamation from the background, _“Wait… he hasn’t slept with hot-guy yet? Is that even possible?”_

“Well,” Nat hums, in a slightly distracted way that suggests half of her attention is elsewhere, probably on Clint. “From everything you’ve told me, I think something did happen that night. But if you can’t remember, and he’s not telling you, you’ve got no choice but to talk to him directly.”

“Ugh but… I really thought we were getting somewhere. He had no problem sleeping in the same bed as me, putting his arms around me… Now it’s like I scare him. Every time I try to get close he backs right off… Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Nat says, like Bucky’s being particularly dense. “Which is why I think you need to ask him.”

“But it makes no sense! I thought he liked me…”

Nat makes a noise which communicates she’s almost certainly rolling her eyes. “Jesus Barnes, I’m going to start billing you for all this therapy… You said his friend told you he’s had a lot on his plate this year. Not everyone deals with stuff the same way. Maybe there’s something stopping him from getting involved. Maybe he needs to work some shit out too. Maybe you’d know if you actually _asked_ him.”

Bucky groans, long and dramatic, at the suggestion.

Nat laughs. “Exactly. Anyway, you’re an idiot. Don’t you think if he didn’t want you there, he’d have kicked you out of his car by now? My bet is, he’s just as confused as you.”

“Great…” Bucky says sarcastically.

“ _Talk_ to him, idiot. Use your words. Like an actual grown up.” There’s an irritating beeping noise over the line that sounds like a vehicle backing up, and Nat clicks her tongue impatiently. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. We’re about to catch a tour coach to Milford Sound and Clint doesn’t have any pants on yet. Let me know how you go, though.”

Disregarding the unsavoury image that _that_ little snippet of information gives him, Bucky thanks her for the advice and wishes them both a good time before hanging up. Then he sits on the beach, digging his heels into the sand and stewing over his situation.

He really doesn’t want to talk to Steve. Not about this.

If there’s one thing Bucky’s never been good at, it’s talking feelings. He prefers to communicate in other ways. And like—obviously he knows not everyone is the same. _Steve_ probably isn’t the same. Or maybe he is—since he seems to keep a lot of stuff bottled up inside. Maybe they both don’t like talking about these things, and that’s the problem. But maybe it’s not, and Steve’s one of those people who actually needs to talk things over before he’s willing to take the leap. In which case, why hasn’t he just done it already? 

Bucky hugs his knees, groaning.

Now he’s just thinking himself in circles. Clearly, the solution is to put this whole thing off for another day or two. See how things go, then decide. That seems like a reasonable compromise.

Mind made up, he walks back to the camp, ready to tackle the rest of the day.

The next few hours pass much the same as the previous twenty-four.

Steve’s friendly but cautious around Bucky, never completely distant, but always just a little bit on edge. Any casual physical contact they’d settled into before Nelson seems to have disappeared entirely. Now, Steve’s careful to make sure there are no more lingering touches or easy hugs, no matter how much Bucky tries to entice him into it.

His oddly standoffish manner is made all the more confusing for the way he still looks at Bucky when he thinks Bucky isn’t looking at him—tinged with a sadness and yearning that makes Bucky want to march straight over to him, get his mouth on Steve’s, and see if that can’t bring them to some kind of understanding about what they want from each other.

He’d probably have to physically tackle Steve to make it happen though, given the way he’s keeping his distance right now. Which—besides the fact Bucky’s not even sure he _could_ , since Steve is built like a brick shithouse—is probably far too much drama for any city’s central business district during lunch hour.

They’re in Christchurch now, wandering the streets to take in the sights. And if Bucky thought their lunch spot in Kaikōura yesterday had had a big earthquake, Christchurch has had a _really_ big earthquake. Two of them, in fact. Roughly eight years ago.

The roads are shit, frankly, and that’s the first giveaway. Potholed, uneven, and home to possibly the largest collection of traffic cones in the entire Southern Hemisphere, they lead to a city that looks like it’s still in the process of emerging from the rubble.

There are empty gravel lots sandwiched between brand new office buildings, construction work everywhere, and even the odd condemned and graffitied mid-rise cordoned off from the sidewalk, still waiting to be brought down. It’s the strangest mix of building styles and ages—colonial era stone masonry right next to brand new glass and steel, in a way that kind of reminds Bucky of home, given all the scaffolding and building activity going on. Most of the inner city is lush and green, wrapped around the fringes of a large central park, with even more green spaces spilling along the banks of the river that meanders through its heart.

He and Steve end up in a pedestrian street with old-fashioned pastel shopfronts, selling an eclectic mix of art, jewellery, coffee, and the most mouth-watering selection of gelato Bucky’s seen since arriving in this entire godforsaken country. They stop to get some, and Bucky chooses a flavour that looks like it probably has Oreos in it, then pays extra to get it held beneath the store’s melted chocolate dispenser.

His choice makes Steve smile in a way that leaves Bucky’s stomach doing flips. It’s like Steve guessed he was going to do exactly that. Which—knowing Steve—is no doubt why he brought Bucky here.

God it’s torture, trying to figure him out.

In a way, he’s kind of like Bucky’s gelato—all plain vanilla, giving nothing away, until unexpectedly, you hit the sweet cookie-gold hidden beneath the surface. And Bucky’s coming to love that about him. How every time he thinks he’s got Steve figured out, he does something surprising or new, or shares another little glimpse of himself that hints at just how much there still is to learn. 

Which, great—now Bucky’s comparing Steve to ice cream, which also happens to be one of his very favourite things in the entire world, and probably says an unfortunate amount about how he can’t get Steve out of his head right now.

But it’s also Monday, December seventeenth, and there’s only one week to go before Christmas Eve. One single, too-short week left for Bucky to unravel the mystery that is Steve, before he has to get on a plane and fly back to Nat and Clint. And then, _home_.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

Or maybe it’s just that—sitting beneath a pleasantly shady canopy of leaves, with the quiet burble of the river and its waterfowl inhabitants in the background, in the unseasonal warmth of a foreign summer—the sugar has gone straight to Bucky’s head. Either that, or Steve’s mouth really does have the wistful slant to it that Bucky imagines it does. The one that makes him look like he’s only a half-second away from leaning across the park bench and licking the residual gelato-sweetness straight out of Bucky’s mouth.

Steve smiles, a little sad, and taps one corner of his mouth with a finger. “You’ve got a little ice cream right there, Buck…”

“Oh—” Bucky swipes his tongue across the spot, licking up the creamy treat. “Thanks.”

And oh—it’s so worth it to see the intensity in Steve’s eyes. The way his breath hitches for just a split second, before he gets himself back under control. It might not be much, but it’s more than enough to betray him. Whatever’s going on between them, it’s not that he doesn’t want Bucky…

Knowing as much, Bucky can’t help but smile.

“What?” Steve asks, frowning.

Bucky snorts, smiling even wider. “Oh you know… good ice cream.”

It’s unclear if the excuse is enough to fool Steve, though. He just looks away, mouth uneven in a way that suggests uncertainty.

Afterwards, there’s only one more visit to make—to the first photo site that looks radically different from the way it did in Steve’s parents’ day.

“Oh shit,” Bucky breathes, glancing up at the broken stone structure behind the fence, currently nursing a dual infestation of pigeons and weeds. The entire upper-half of its forward facing wall and roof appear to have collapsed inwards, and what little remains is propped up by an ugly industrial-steel scaffold. The building’s side-walls bulge and crack, and there’s no sign at all of the towering gothic spire that once capped the cathedral’s structure.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, gazing up at it. “It turns out bricks and masonry don’t do so well in an earthquake.”

“Yeah but…” Bucky frowns. “Didn’t you say it had been eight years?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods, gesturing around them. “But half the city was destroyed beyond repair. There’s only so much money to go around, and no one can agree on how the cathedral should be rebuilt. A lot of residents want it put back the way it was, but that’s difficult to engineer and would cost a lot, and neither the city council or church can afford it right now.” He gives a wry shrug. “It’s just one of those things… it’s going to take time to find the right solution.”

Bucky supposes he can understand that. He was only twelve when the downtown Manhattan skyline changed forever, but he still remembers the back and forth arguments in the aftermath. What to do with the site. How best to honour the victims…

So maybe Steve has a point. Healing the wounds of a place like this takes time.

They talk another tourist into snapping a photo of them, standing far enough apart to keep even the snobbish parents in a Victorian romance novel happy. It’s a far cry from their last shot, where Steve held Bucky in his arms on the jetty. Much more like their first awkward meeting, back in Cape Reinga.

It leaves a bitter ache of disappointment in Bucky’s chest. Even more so when he compares it to Steve’s parents’ photo in the same place—standing hand in hand, their bright smiles focused far more on each other than the camera. They look happy and in love. So much so, it’s impossible not to feel jealous…

That afternoon, they hit the road again, driving out across the Canterbury Plains. It’s one of the few parts of New Zealand which is truly pancake flat for miles and miles. Bordered on one side by the ocean, and on the other by the same unbroken line of towering peaks that grows ever-larger on the horizon the closer they get, it’s dairy farming country—all cows, grass, skinny poplar windbreaks, and dozens of the ‘big bloody ugly’ pivot irrigators Steve detests so much.

He doesn’t look particularly inclined to chain himself to any fences over them right now, though. Probably too distracted by the way Bucky’s torturing him—playing the Lord of the Rings movie soundtracks for the third time in as many days. Bucky figures it’s only fair. Payback for how many times Steve’s had him listen to Fleetwood Mac on this trip. So many, he’s even starting to think he might not actually mind it. 

Oh, the humanity…

Outside of the ute, everything that isn’t irrigated looks bone-dry even though it’s only early summer. The roads are long and straight, an undulating mismatch of asphalt that sometimes lacks a centreline and occasionally branches off into dirt on the lesser side thoroughfares. Finch-like birds flit from an unkempt grass verge, stalked by hawks soaring high on thermals above the patchwork fields. There are wildflowers, melting tar, and dilapidated farm buildings. Tractors share the road with them.

On the horizon, the mountains look hazy and washed out, like an old-fashioned theatre backdrop. The golden hue to their lower slopes reminds Bucky of the way Steve described the view from his farm. He wonders if the view there really does look the same. If there’s any chance he could ever see it…

The thought provokes a longing in his chest, so strong, he has no choice but to ignore it. It’s best not to hope for the impossible, after all.

But the line of the mountains does seem remarkably constant, no matter where on the island they travel. So maybe it is similar.

The East Coast here is certainly a stark contrast to the one Bucky’s more familiar with, anyway. The seaboard that is, by turns, depressing and cold in winter, or disgustingly hot and humid in summer, with brief more palatable interludes in between. Here, humidity seems to be more of a feature of the north. The ‘Mainland’—as Steve calls the South Island—is full of long hot days, cool nights, and a twilight that lasts later and later into the evening the further south they go. There’s something nice about it. The relaxed pace of life, too.

It’s taken Bucky a while to pick up on it, but compared to New York, no one here ever seems like they’re in a hurry. It’s true of all of New Zealand, but especially the rural areas. People stop to chat in shops, give directions to strangers and dawdle along the streets like they have nowhere in particular to be. They seem completely at ease with the idea that things will happen at whatever pace they happen, and there’s no point worrying about it or trying to change it.

It’s an attitude that’s infectious, especially on vacation.

That night, they stay in a campground near a small town in the shadow of the alps. Evening brings with it a brilliant sunset that sets the mottled clouds on fire in every shade of orange and gold imaginable, reflecting an otherworldly light down onto the mountains. When nightfall does finally come, it arrives all at once, like a drape being pulled.

They sleep separately again, though still on the same bed, which means Bucky can feel every little movement Steve makes in his sleep. It also means they end up disturbing each other halfway through the night when the wind kicks up, snapping the nylon fabric of the tent in and out in fretful gusts. But, even more than the noise, it’s the weirdly warm temperature which wakes Bucky.

He kicks out of his sleeping bag, rolling over with a grumpy huff, vaguely aware through a haze of residual sleep that the weather has no business being this kind of warm in the middle of the goddamn night. In the dark, he can just make out enough to see that Steve’s done the same thing, which means it’s not just Bucky who’s come down with a fever or started losing his mind. Reassured, he closes his eyes and eventually dozes off again.

In the morning, the weather is no better. It’s oddly hot for so early in the day, with an ominous dark grey sky that seems to threaten rain. Even the clouds look weird. Undulating and textured, with some—flat underneath and smoothly curved on top—that hang strangely motionless in stacks high above the mountains. Frozen in place like a tower of cookies, or some kind of alien invasion fleet.

At ground level, an unsettled wind worries the tent as they take it down, coming in fits and starts, hot like a hairdryer. The whole thing feels oddly apocalyptic. As though it wouldn’t be out of place for a plague of locusts to suddenly appear, or the four horsemen to casually drop in for breakfast. Or like… a stray Nazgul to pass by or something.

It has Bucky sweating buckets before they’ve even gone anywhere.

Shoving the last of the tent pegs in the bag, he turns to Steve. “What’s up with this weather? Why is it so damn hot?”

There’s a damp patch on Steve’s shirt already, highlighting the lines of his well-defined chest. The worst part is, it only makes him look hotter. As in… the sexy kind of hot. Well… also just hot, hot. What Bucky wouldn’t give for a cold swim right now…

“Remember how I told you about the Nor’wester?” Steve asks.

Bucky makes a face. “Didn’t it rip the roof off your shearing shed one year?”

Steve nods. “Yeah.” He looks gratified that Bucky even remembers. “This is a Nor’wester. It’s when the wind comes across the Southern Alps at just the right angle to make it really hot on the East Coast, and really wet on the west.”

Some long forgotten nugget of geography clicks into place in Bucky’s brain. “Oh! You mean like the Chinook in the Rockies, or the Santa Ana in California!”

Steve tilts his head thoughtfully. “Huh… in Europe they called them foehn winds. I guess it must be a thing anywhere there are mountains big enough.”

“How come it’s not very windy, then?” Bucky asks, glancing around them. 

Not that it’s _not_ windy. But it doesn’t seem like it’s anywhere near strong enough to be ripping the roofs off buildings anytime soon.

Steve shrugs, unconcerned. “Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. It’s hard to predict. Some days you just get the clouds and high temperatures, other days you’re out picking up the roofing iron afterwards. Maybe it’ll pick up later on.”

It’s an unsatisfactory explanation, but one Bucky has no choice but to accept at face-value. It’s not like it’s something he’s experienced before, living in New York.

“Anyway,” Steve continues, smiling in a way that makes Bucky decidedly nervous. “I think it’s your turn to drive. Time for a bit of off-roading.”

“What?” Bucky exclaims, horrified.

Steve grins, looking entertained by his unease. “Don’t be like that. You’ll be fine.”

Somewhere in the depths of his memory, Bucky has a vague recollection from a long time ago—geography class in years past maybe—of the way Santa Ana winds are supposed to make people act funny. Something about the combination of soaring temperatures and parched-dry humidity that pushes them over the edge into madness. It’s exactly the kind of bullshit he’s always considered nothing more than an old wife’s tale.

But now—driving down a gravel road in the middle of nowhere in New Zealand—there’s a small part of him that wonders if it might not be true. At least a little bit. Because how the hell else did the stars align for him to find himself here, doing this?

“See,” Steve says, characteristically smug. “I told you metal roads were nothing to worry about.”

Metal _. Hah_. Bucky snickers.

It’s such a ridiculous name. Why can’t New Zealanders just call them dirt or gravel roads like the rest of the civilised world?

He snorts. “Yes, Steve. Fine. They’re not so scary. Are you happy now?”

The corner of Steve’s mouth ticks up a little. “Only if you are.”

It’s such a fond gesture that for a minute, Bucky has to stop looking at him entirely, out of fear of betraying himself. He can’t deal with it when Steve looks at him like that—like Bucky’s opinion is the only thing that matters to him in the whole world. “We’re going to visit an actual movie filming location, Steve. Of course I’m happy,” he says, a touch sarcastic. Mostly to disguise the feelings that might slip through otherwise. Obviously, the company on this trip isn’t bad either. But Bucky’s not going to admit _that_ part out loud.

“Good.” Steve leans back in his seat and closes his eyes as though they’re not barrelling down an uneven road at like, seventy kilometres an hour, mere seconds away from death.

He really does trust Bucky far too much with his ute, and his life.

Especially because the view is so damn distracting. It’s wild country, full of immense U-shaped glacial valleys, craggy rock escarpments, and crystal clear rivers. Exactly like the Rohan from the movies, and exactly the way Bucky had always imagined it would look if it were a real place.

A cloud of dust kicks up in the rear-view mirror as another car passes them by. At the road’s edges, gravel collects in deep drifts, a sure-fire way to get the ute fishtailing if taken at speed. Bucky slows down as the going gets tougher.

It feels like they’re headed to the very end of the road, at the very end of the world.

That combined with the way the cell reception dropped off to nothing several miles back, makes it exactly the kind of place you wouldn’t want to get a flat.

But eventually, they crest the top of a low hill and—

The view that opens before them takes Bucky’s breath away. The rocky outcrop of Edoras—Mount Sunday—rises, windswept and lonely, from the junction of a broad river valley, dwarfed on all sides by moody slate-grey peaks that climb to touch the overcast sky.

Bucky feels like he’s ten years old again, waking up on Christmas morning to open his presents from Santa.

“Wow…” he breathes, almost forgetting he’s meant to be driving.

Steve smiles.

It takes a few more minutes to descend into the valley itself, venturing cautiously down a particularly rough stretch of road that could just as easily pass for an unusually well-maintained riverbed. The land around it is sectioned into uneven fields of dry grass and amber tussock, dotted with stock roaming the hills. And the parking lot—if it can even be called that—is a flat stony area overgrown with weeds. Bucky pulls into it, marvelling a little at the fact he actually managed to get them here in one piece. Without putting any more dents in Steve’s ute, even.

As they pile out, Steve tosses another tube of sunscreen Bucky’s way.

“It’s _cloudy_ ,” Bucky points out.

“You can still burn,” Steve says, in that irritatingly responsible tone of his that makes Bucky want to roll his eyes, snort in derision, and kiss him senseless all at the same time.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, holding back a laugh at the look Steve gives him for it. 

It’s shades of amused and unimpressed, complete with a raised eyebrow that seems to ask, _‘Really?’_

After the sunscreen is appropriately applied, Bucky lets Steve lead the way. Not because he likes looking at Steve’s ass—well okay, only _partly_ because he likes looking at Steve’s ass—but mostly because Steve seems to know where he’s going. Which—since it appears they’re walking across a literal river bed minus the water, with only a few metal poles to delineate where the track is supposed to take them—is probably for the best.

Not that they could really get lost. Edoras, or Mount Sunday, is permanently in sight, separated from them by only a couple of gushing mountain streams. The official path is important only inasmuch as it saves them from having to wade through freezing cold water, or prickly plants to get there.

Finally, after bouncing across a narrow one-person-at-a-time swing bridge, there’s only one way left to go. Up.

It’s not a particularly hard climb. Almost doable in flip-flops, though as Steve puts it, probably not recommended. But compared to that damn North Island volcano he had Bucky scale, this is easy. Sticky and unpleasant given the heat, but with the excited buzz Bucky has going about visiting an actual filming location, he really couldn’t care less.

The wind starts to pick up, growing in strength the higher they climb, whistling around exposed stone crevices and roaring in Bucky’s ears. It’s desert-dry too, wicking every scrap of moisture off his skin, and then some, while doing nothing to cool him down.

But when they finally reach the top, it’s worth it. A stunning panorama of the mountains awaits, on a scale that seems almost unfathomable. Like some ancient giant fashioned the landscape at the dawning of time. There’s a triangulation station up there too—a curious three-legged pyramid secured directly into the rock. The rest of the summit is grassy and uneven, peppered with boulders and jagged outcroppings that drop away spectacularly at the edges.

Venturing to the far end of the space, away from the other tourists, Bucky finds a mostly flat platform of stone that’s worn smooth. He sits on it, dangling his feet over the edge and admiring the view.

From here it’s easy to get a sense of the geology of the place. Two huge mountain valleys split in a V-shape in front of him, their broad gravel rivers spilling into the open space around Mount Sunday before converging and flowing back towards the East Coast. Back in the direction Bucky and Steve came from. 

Steve drops down next to him, conjuring a water bottle from somewhere—the backpack he was sensible enough to bring, probably. Trust him to be prepared. But with the weather the way it is, Bucky’s grateful. He drinks, long and deep, savouring the moisture on his parched throat. Of course he’d really love a Frappuccino, or anything else involving ice right now. But something tells him the nearest Starbucks is probably, inconveniently, several-hundred kilometres from here…

He holds the rest of the half-full bottle against his cheeks and forehead, savouring its semi-cool state and tossing up the relative virtues of drinking what’s left versus just tipping it all over his head.

Setting his own bottle aside, Steve’s attention shifts from the view. “So…” he says, the subtle quirk of his lips hinting at the beginnings of the smile Bucky’s come to love so much over these last few weeks. “Are you convinced yet?”

Humming in feigned uncertainty, Bucky stretches his arms out above his head. It’s all for show, obviously. As if Steve doesn’t already know what his answer is going to be. Yet, he still keeps asking anyway.

“I mean, it is pretty neat...” Bucky says slowly, trying to cast some doubt on the matter. 

“But…” Steve prompts.

“I think it’s too early to decide. I’ll have to see more.”

As predicted, Steve chuckles. “To the end of the line, huh?”

Bucky nods, trying to look even halfway serious. “Sure. To the end of the line. Or Invercargill. Or wherever.”

Nearby, some people are flying the flag of Rohan and posing for photos in costume. One of them even looks like they have a replica of Aragorn’s sword. It reminds Bucky of his own teenage desire to live out the fantasy of the movies. How much time he spent fencing around the house, imagining he was Éowyn cutting down the forces of Mordor, much to his mom’s despair.

To this day, he’s still not sure what it was that resonated with him so strongly about her story. As a kid, it was probably just the thrill of make-believe. And as an adult… well maybe he could relate a little to Éowyn’s fear of being trapped in a gilded cage, forced to forsake her dreams.

It must show on his face, because Steve gives him a curious look. “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Bucky tries to school his expression into something that doesn’t involve a grimace, but fails spectacularly. “Just everything that’s waiting for me back home, I guess…”

Steve tilts his head. “Like what?”

It’s innocent enough, but Bucky sighs, picking at a spot of dry grass growing from a cleft in the rock between them.

“Having to find a new job, for starters. And dealing with my parents. They weren’t exactly happy I ditched them for Thanksgiving, Christmas _and_ New Years.”

‘Not happy’ being the understatement of the century, probably.

He rubs a weary hand over his face. “Then there’s the small matter of turning thirty. And the fact I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. I mean… I really thought I would have everything sorted by now. But what if this is as good as it gets? What if Mom’s right, and the best I can hope for is to settle, in life, and work, and… everything else…"

The problem is the way Steve listens. How he gives Bucky his full, undivided attention, like he’s the only person in the entire world. Gives him the space to spill his guts, to hand over his deepest darkest fears to a guy he barely even knows, just because it feels _right_ …

“What if I wake up, thirty years from now, regretting the things I didn’t do?” Bucky continues, swallowing. “The chances I didn’t take?”

It’s not like he expects Steve to have the answers. In some ways he’s no more involved in this conversation than the scenery is—just there to listen while Bucky grapples with questions he’s only now beginning to find the right words for.

But the smile Steve gives him is as confident and reassuring as they come. “You won’t. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Buck. I’m sure you’ll figure out what you want and how to make it happen.”

There’s a faint suggestion of a flush across his nose and cheeks. Sunburn maybe, though it really shouldn’t be, not with how much sunscreen he put on earlier. Something else then, perhaps…

Bucky looks down to hide the warm feelings blossoming in his own chest, and no doubt across his face, too. At the foot of the hill, another big group of people are beginning the climb.

Steve nods in their direction. “You want to finish checking this place out and get some photos before they get up here?”

It’s a sensible suggestion. They could definitely do without competing for the best spots. Bucky nods.

Steve rises quickly, turning to brush dirt and dried grass off his unfairly attractive ass. He collects their water bottles and zips them back into his bag. With a sigh, Bucky gets to his feet too, twisting to check whether there’s stuff stuck to his shorts as well. But as he turns, he stumbles on an uneven rock, losing his balance and flailing precariously toward the edge.

The drop beneath him looms large and deadly. A lightning bolt of terror paralyses his limbs. Oh _fuck_ —

Hands snatch around his waist, pulling him away from it and against a firm, solid chest. Steve stares down at him, blinking owlishly—like he’s just as surprised to find himself in this position as Bucky is. All kinds of awkward, he clears his throat, stating obviously, “Uh… you should probably try to be more careful around the edge, Buck.”

Bucky suddenly becomes aware of the death-grip he’s got around Steve’s shoulders. And of just how good it feels, being pressed up against him like this.

_Like… holy shit good._

The kind Bucky would trade his entire inheritance for, just to spend a single night in bed.

Steve’s hands rest at the small of his back, gorgeously expressive blue eyes flicking briefly down to Bucky’s lips and back again. He swallows, throat bobbing.

It feels terribly familiar for some reason. Like if Bucky just tipped his head up slightly, and Steve tipped his down—

The memory hits Bucky like a sensory avalanche.

_A blaze of stars overhead. The soft swish of the waves. Damp sand between his toes. The way Steve drew him in, kissing back with eager, soft lips. The scratch of his beard against Bucky’s chin. The feeling of knowing he was wanted. The moment Steve pulled away…_

Fuck _—_

With a gasp, Bucky breaks free, taking several steps back and staring at Steve, wide-eyed.

It’s real, isn’t it—this memory? Not a dream, but the missing piece of the puzzle. The thing that happened to drive them apart. But… why? Why would Steve reject him like that?

A deep furrow forms between Steve’s brows. “Are you okay, Bucky?”

If there’s one thing Bucky’s sure of right now, it’s that he’s very much _not_ okay. There’s a mess of confusion and hurt roiling in his chest like a hurricane. Questions he needs the answers to, but can’t find the right words to express.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, crossing his arms defensively. “I didn’t need your help.”

“Okay…” Steve says, raising his hands in a non-threatening manner. But everything about his body language and tone says he’s confused and hurt too—from the vulnerable look on his face, to the tight way he’s carrying his shoulders.

Fuck.

Nothing about this situation is good. So Bucky does what he always does best. Backs the fuck out of it and tries to pretend it never happened. He turns on his heel. “Come on. Let’s see the rest of this place.”

There’s a long-suffering sigh from behind him, but eventually, Steve follows.

They don’t talk much for the rest of that afternoon.

Steve drives the road to Arthur’s Pass, a tiny speck of a town in the heart of the Southern Alps, through another river valley sprinkled with colourful lupins. Surrounded by forest and picturesque waterfalls, it’s a beautiful spot. Cooler, too. A much more pleasant temperature to hike in, along a short uphill track to where water cascades off a bare rock cliff face, thin and misty, like a bridal veil. Bucky watches it, wondering if his hopes for anything more with Steve are also vanishing like spray on the breeze.

And Steve, damn him—

He’s too good at reading Bucky not to know it. Not that he does anything about it. Just casts long unhappy looks his way as they drive over a spectacular viaduct cleverly designed to out-engineer the sheer mountain slopes around it. Before long, the road descends out of the hills altogether and onto the slender plain of the West Coast.

It’s a stark contrast to the east. Everything here is lush, green and damp—a land caught perpetually between rain showers. Even the air smells moist. The coast itself is lonely and deserted, its barren stony beaches beaten down by an ocean whipped into white-caps by the stiff breeze. Clouds hang, low and heavy, with the promise of rain to come.

Bucky and Steve could be the last people on Earth, and this place would look exactly the same. 

The gloom matches Bucky’s mood perfectly. He stares morosely out the window, turning over the situation in his head. 

_“Don’t you think if he didn’t want you there with him, he’d have kicked you out of his car by now?”_

_“Talk to him, idiot…”_

Sensible advice though it might be, Bucky has no idea where to begin. The problem is, as always, that the _idea_ of talking is easier than actually doing it. So, as usual, he says nothing.

Their next stop Hokitika, is, by every definition of the expression, a one-horse kind of town—albeit one steeped in a long history. At the height of the gold rush, it was one of the most populous settlements in the whole of New Zealand. Now though, those days are long gone.

Despite it, the main street still maintains a charming wild west kind of feel. The local industry seems to be built around tourism, with souvenir shops, quirky art stores and pounamu carving studios standing out from the usual service offerings. It’s far too small for a Starbucks, though. Too small for more than one major supermarket, even.

Steve drives up a gentle sloping hill behind the town, along streets that feel too wide for the volume of traffic they serve. As though at some point in the past, a town planner thought the place was going to become a lot more popular than it actually did. The houses look a little rundown and shabby too, mostly plain weatherboard or brick, with huge grassy backyards. And every sidewalk they pass sports moss, a sad commentary on the standard of the local weather, perhaps.

In short order, Steve stops outside of a small house that looks every bit as uninspired as the others around it—with a nondescript street frontage and single car garage. He kills the engine and sits there in awkward silence, expression troubled.

“So I uh… decided to book somewhere a little more weather resistant than the tent,” he offers, glancing at Bucky uncertainly. “It’s supposed to rain pretty hard tonight, and there’s no rain like West Coast rain…”

When Bucky doesn’t say anything, Steve sighs, clenching his hands in his lap. “There are two bedrooms too. So you can have your own space again… if you’d like.”

Would Bucky like that? He doesn’t even know anymore. Everything is such a fucking mess right now…

Clearly giving up on trying to figure Bucky out, Steve gets out of the ute and carries his suitcase inside instead.

The interior of the place isn’t bad. It’s newer than it looks on first impression, anyway, though still probably dates back to some renovation in the mid 2000s. But it has a cosy feel to it, with a log burner in one corner of the lounge, a sofa deep enough to get lost in, and a comfortable king-sized bed just off the main living space. The bathroom has a full tile and glass shower and, just down the hall, a second bedroom is tucked away in its own private space. 

At the far end of the lounge, the kitchen and dining area leads onto an expansive deck overlooking the town, with an unobstructed view all the way down to the beach. It’s exactly the sort of spot that would be magical on a long, clear summer’s evening.

Which is definitely not _this_ evening.

The air feels damp and salty in a way that gets under Bucky’s jacket collar and gives him the paranoid belief the skies might open up at any second. He keeps imagining he can feel spits of rain on his cheeks, but there’s never enough of it to be entirely sure.

They head into town for dinner, along the near-deserted main street to the one and only local pizza joint. It’s small, with an eclectic, beach-themed interior. Unsurprising, given its proximity to the shore—close enough to hear the crash of the waves from inside. The pizza is decent though, even if it’s nothing to write home about. Not a patch on Bucky’s usual local. Still, the only part of the experience that’s less-than-stellar is the stilted, non-existent conversation between him and Steve.

It makes Bucky think maybe this whole situation is a lost cause. That whatever he thought he and Steve could have, the signs he thought he’d been reading, were only in his head. Because when the chips were down, Steve didn’t want him.

He swallows the last of his pizza, trying desperately not to face up to facts. Nothing about where they’re at right now makes him feel good. The realisation that it’s time to find a way out of this arrangement.

Beneath the table, Steve nudges his foot. It makes Bucky glance up, though he doesn’t like what he sees. Steve’s eyes are serious, his lips thin. Tense lines mar his usually handsome face, and he watches Bucky with an expression so intense it gives Bucky goosepimples.

Clearly, the moment of reckoning has arrived.

“What’s wrong, Buck?” Steve asks, slow and firm. Then, before Bucky can deny everything, adds, “Because something is… I can tell. And I want you to talk to me. Tell me what it is.”

Buying time with an extra-slow exhale, Bucky traces his fingertips over the woodgrain of the table. There’s probably no point denying this any longer. Even if the conversation does end with him finding his way back to Nat and Clint earlier than planned, at least he’ll _know_.

He squares his shoulders and looks Steve straight in the eye. “Nelson.”

Something flickers in Steve’s expression. He keeps it pretty well under wraps, but not enough to deny it was ever there. “What about Nelson?” he asks, tone perfectly even.

But his fingers have tightened around the table’s edge, and Bucky _knows_ he knows.

“Steve…” he says, gently reprimanding. “We kissed. You pushed me away. I need to know why.”

Shoulders sinking, Steve’s face falls. Not enough to suggest he wasn’t expecting that answer, though. “I didn’t think you remembered,” he says quietly.

It’s almost worse than having an all-out screaming match in public. Almost. Bucky would know…

“I didn’t,” he says miserably, already anticipating the direction this conversation is going in and cursing his poor choice in men yet again. “Until this afternoon.”

“Oh…” Steve sounds downcast and weary, like he’d rather be anywhere but here, doing anything but having this conversation.

Bucky can relate. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, sounding far too vulnerable for his own liking.

He barely even knows Steve. And it was only one kiss. It shouldn’t hurt this much…

“I thought it was for the best,” Steve says, failing entirely to meet Bucky’s gaze. “You weren’t exactly sober. And I’m not the type of guy to take advantage of that.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Steve!” Bucky blurts out, louder than intended. “I goddamn wish you were.”

Steve groans, burying his head in his hands. It looks kind of like he wishes he could sink into the floor right now. Or maybe make Bucky sink into the floor. Anything, so they don’t have to talk about this.

It’s definitely not the reaction Bucky was hoping for. His stomach flips sickly. Well… there’s nothing for it now, except to commit. It’s not like things could get any worse, right?

“What I’m trying to say is…” He pauses, struggling for words that won’t come. Like speaking through a mouthful of molasses. “I’ve really enjoyed travelling with you… but you have to know there’s a reason I got into your car in the first place. I don’t think I’ve been particularly subtle about it...”

Still, Steve says nothing.

Drawing a steadying breath, Bucky squares his shoulders, bracing for the inevitable. “I like you Steve. And I’m pretty sure you know what I mean by that. But… if that’s not something you’re interested in, I understand. I just want you to tell it to me straight. Do you like me the way I like you? Because if not… I think it’s probably time for me to stop embarrassing myself and go.”

If Bucky was hoping for this ultimatum to be met with some kind of logical response—good, bad or otherwise—he’s disappointed.

Head in his hands, Steve just groans again. It sounds like he hates the situation just as much as Bucky does. Or maybe, just hates Bucky. Or himself. It’s not entirely clear which. 

_Great_. So this is what comes of talking to someone like an actual adult. Bucky makes a noise of frustration.

Several too-long moments pass before finally, Steve removes his hands from his face and looks up. It still doesn’t seem like this is a conversation he particularly wants to have, but there is a more determined quality to his expression now, like a bulldozer about to go through a wall.

Bucky can already tell it either means something really good, or really bad.

Steve tips his head at the door. “Walk with me on the beach.”

It’s a command, not a question. Never mind that it’s far from beach weather outside. More like a miserable day on Long Island in fall, with an unpleasantly cool breeze that’s not getting any warmer as the evening drags on. Plus a more than even chance of getting rained on. But, having pushed Steve into this, Bucky supposes he’s not in any position to refuse.

“Okay…” He nods, tired and capitulating too easily. “Let’s walk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless Trivia:
> 
>   * New Zealand is sometimes colloquially called the “Shaky Isles.” In addition to having volcanoes, earthquakes are incredibly common here. We generally have about 15,000-20,000 every year, though most of them are far too small to feel. The earthquake along the coastline that Steve and Bucky drive along was the [2016 Kaikōura Earthquake](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2016_Kaik%C5%8Dura_earthquake). It was 7.8 magnitude, knocked out State Highway One (the main road south) for an entire year, and also damaged some buildings in Wellington beyond repair.
>   * Christchurch has also had two big earthquakes, a decade ago now. The first was in September 2010, at 4.35am, which damaged buildings in the city but didn’t cause any loss of life. The second was a smaller but much shallower earthquake located right underneath the city, which happened at lunch time on [February 22nd 2011](https://nzhistory.govt.nz/page/christchurch-earthquake-kills-185). Buildings collapsed, 185 people died, and the city is very much still in the process of being rebuilt.
>   * The "Nor'wester” is a foehn wind that regularly affects the east coast of South Island. It’s a well known Canterbury phenomenon, but also occurs all the way up to Marlborough, and down to Otago. It’s famous for causing hot, dry weather, strong winds, and unusual cloud formations (namely the “Nor’west Arch” and lenticular clouds) which make for spectacular sunsets like the one in the title picture of this chapter. 
>   * Gravel roads may be described interchangeably as "metal" roads here in NZ. The name just refers to the stone chips or "metal" that's spread on the road's surface. We have a lot of them in rural areas.
>   * If you're interested, the view from Mount Sunday (Edoras) is the bottom picture in this story’s title graphic. It’s looking inland towards the valleys Bucky describes.
> 

> 
> So... I know this chapter ends in a cliffhanger, but don't worry - I promise Bucky's got Steve properly cornered this time! He's not getting away without talking about his feelings. And lucky number 13 is probably my favourite chapter in this whole story. For... reasons... ;) 
> 
> Bring on next week!


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